The Bucket List
by Meadowlark27
Summary: After learning his life is in limbo, Katniss Everdeen decides she'll do anything to help her best friend, Peeta Mellark, achieve all he's ever wanted. Everlark, modern-day AU.
1. Prologue

_**Prologue**_

The first time she met him, they were five years old. Her dress was red—faded with age so that it was nearly orange, the fabric wrinkled and stonewashed—and he wore denim pants that had food dye stains on the left shin. It was their first day of kindergarten. When the teacher had them all gather into a hopelessly lopsided circle, she prompted her students with a question.

"Does anybody know the Valley Song?"

The song itself was just as worn and faded as the little girl's red dress, as it had been passed down from generation to generation in this tiny town that was wedged in a gorge of the Appalachians. Only the people of Panem, Pennsylvania—all eight thousand of them—were familiar with the melody, and it was a figment of their culture that would probably never die out, or so the elders of the town readily bragged. It was their anthem, which could always be heard resonating from the crypts of the mines on the northside of Panem as the workers chipped away at the coal, day after day.

Yet, at the ripe young age of five, sixteen of the seventeen students in the small class looked at each other with widened eyes, jaws slack in narcosis. _The Valley Song?_

But one hand, belonging to the seventeenth student, shot straight in the air.

The little boy in the stained denim jeans, who sported a mop of curly, golden hair, looked to the owner of the hand. Instead of noticing the pallor of her red dress, or the coal dust under her nails, or the dark circles below her lower lids, he saw the brightness of her silver eyes that looked to be moons of their own, the elegance of her thin frame, the lush chestnut shade of her two braids, her exotic olive complexion that suggested she was from a miner's family.

_She's pretty_, he thought to himself.

And then she opened her mouth.

The teacher had urged her to sing the Valley Song for them, and the girl with the braids and the lunar eyes complied. The sound that streamed from her mouth was _certainly_ not human—could it be?—as it was too pure, too lyrical to belong to a person. Her timbre was high, unwavering in its confidence. She sounded like a bird. Like a phoenix, rising from the ashes and coal dust of Panem, new and colorful and beautiful.

He was a goner.

He waited to talk to her all day, but she made friends easily because she was pretty and could _sing._ (And five-year-old students build friendships on traits as superficial as that.) Not that _he_ didn't make friends, though; he had eyes that were shards of the sky, rosy cheeks, and sunshine for hair, and he had brought _cookies_ to school that morning, so the kids were fond of him, too. But the girl with the moon-irises and the red dress paid little attention to the porcelain boy that thought she was divine, chiseled from a little sector of heaven itself. In fact, she paid little attention to any of her immediate "friends." She was fierce and independent and displayed very early that companionship was not vital to her well-being.

But by the time the final bell chimed through the halls, and she began her journey back to her neighborhood, the boy with the golden curls toddled up to her and offered her the last of the cookies he'd brought to school. She shook her head and told him, "I can't repay you."

He thought, _What a silly thing to say._

He told her she didn't have to repay him, and that he just wanted to be nice to her. Her voice grew thin and her molten eyes flattened into iron as she asked him—more like barked at him—"Why?"

The little boy with the cosmic blue eyes told her the truth; it was the first time he realized he couldn't lie to her—that he didn't _want_ to lie to her—and would certainly not be the last.

"Because I think you're pretty, and you sound like a bird when you sing, and I like birds."

It was as simple as that. The girl with the steel eyes and the olive skin offered him a rare smile that hardly anyone else in the world would be able to claim from her, and she held out her hand in which he placed the last cookie.

"I'm Peeta," he offered.

With a full mouth, she mumbled back something that sounded like "catfish."

His eyes widened as he gaped at her in bewilderment, unsure of exactly what he was supposed to gain from that comment, and she could see that she confused him. She decided that he looked cute when he was confused, because his eyes were so big and his chubby cheeks were the color of strawberries, and she easily concluded that she wanted to spend the rest of her life confusing him.

She conceded a sharp laugh that reminded him of birds again, which made him like her even more. "Katniss," she clarified once she swallowed the first bite of her cookie. "I'm Katniss."

And so the sunshine boy and the lunar girl became friends.

* * *

Their friendship was easy at first, as most childhood friendships are, resilient to their mammoth differences in upbringing and personality. Those elements may have even aided their camaraderie, as they were bold compliments, each bringing something new to the table. He let her use his sixty-four pack of crayons when their teacher instructed the class to draw, and she taught him how to climb the trees lining the schoolyard so they could hide from the other kids during recess. He would give her half of his lunch if she promised to double-knot his shoelaces for him. (She didn't have much food, and he didn't know how to tie laces.) He got her to smile when no one else could, and she confused him a lot. To him, Katniss was a mystery he was dying to solve. To her, Peeta was a constant in her otherwise unstable life. They were good for each other, filling in the holes of the other's patchwork world.

But when the sunshine boy and the lunar girl were eleven years old, an explosion ripped through the mine on the northside of Panem. Peeta's family—the Mellark kinfolk—was alright, as they owned a bakery in the heart of town and were either there or at school when the coalmine collapsed. But Katniss's father, Mr. Everdeen, was a miner.

He never came home.

The catastrophe transformed both Peeta and Katniss in different fashions, straining their relationship in every possible mode. Katniss grew more withdrawn, both unwilling to share her feelings and so constantly concerned with _survival_ that things as trivial as friendship were immediately put on the backburners; Peeta grew even more compassionate, if that was possible, pleading for Katniss to unfold her guard so he could fix her. She pulled away, he pushed. She became even more of a mystery, and Peeta became even more confused.

He watched as she sought comfort from a new friend, an older boy by the name of Gale Hawthorne, who lived in the same neighborhood as her—a lower-class quarter popularly known as the Seam. His father had been killed in the mines like Katniss's, and the two of them were so abnormally alike that Katniss eagerly turned to him for guidance, for direction, for a sliver of hope she prayed he could offer but knew, deep down, he really couldn't. They both dealt with grief through bottling up their distress, shrouding themselves in the woods with their shotguns so that they could put food on their tables in place of their fathers. Gale was Katniss's male replica, while Peeta was her complement. And Katniss did not need a complement when she so desperately sought independence in the absence of her father.

But one afternoon, when the sky was gloomy and hostile, her skin cold as rain-soaked clothes clung to every sharp angle of her starved body, she found herself outside the Mellark bakery, curled up under a tree. Her stomach was threatening to eat itself from having gone without food for so long, and she was seeing tiny black dots swirling in her line of vision, when Mrs. Mellark—a wicked woman with platinum-dyed hair and cold eyes that, thankfully, her sunshine-son had not inherited—flung open the back door, screaming and motioning for the girl with the lunar eyes to leave, doing everything in her power—save actually _going out into the rain_, because _how dare she let her white pumps get muddy_—to shoo Katniss from the yard. In response, she brought herself to her feet, hobbling slightly as Mrs. Mellark mumbled something incomprehensible and disappeared inside. The eldest Everdeen daughter was about to turn away when the door opened again, this time revealing the boy that had once been her closest ally, bringing the sun to their world with both his golden curls and his bright features, his blue eyes wide not with confusion this time, but concern.

He held two burnt loaves of bread in his hand.

For a moment, he questioned if he should throw them to her or swallow his pride and personally hand the bread to the girl that used to be his best friend. He decided on the latter of the two, and looking back, it was one of the best decisions he'd ever made.

She met him halfway in the yard, his shirt growing damper as he cut through the rain, his hair matting to the sides of his face in all sorts of directions that she would've found adorable if she wasn't starving to death. He thrust the two loaves into her trembling hands, and unlike with the cookies six years ago, she didn't even make a weak attempt to rebuff. Then he opened his arms, and before she could turn away again, he had snaked her into his grasp, his shoulders slightly broadened and so accommodating in adolescence, the warm scent of pastries lingering on his baby blue polo.

Even though she'd only reserved hugs for her baby sister, Prim—her father had been the single other recipient, but he was gone now—there was something about this embrace that felt so right, so oddly comforting. Katniss had never liked being touched, and that would predominantly hold true for everyone else, but she didn't mind it with Peeta. In fact, now, she welcomed it. And for the first time since her father died, she let herself shatter, sobs ripping through her chest as Peeta's grip only tightened, his strong baker's hands sweeping over her back in gentle brush strokes. She was his empty canvas to fill, to color, to bring to life.

"I missed you," he told her, finding that, as always, the truth was much easier with Katniss.

She was thankful it was raining so that he couldn't obviously distinguish that it was her tears soaking through the collar of his polo. She didn't tell him that she felt the same way, that she had inwardly craved a companion to open up to but denied herself that privilege out of both pride and natural instinct. But both her and Peeta, in that moment, knew she had missed him just as greatly as he'd missed her, even though she didn't say it. Katniss would never be talented when it came to expressing her feelings, but that was alright. It just made her even more mysterious, more _intriguing_, to the boy who brought her a ray of sunlight even on the rainiest of days. To her boy with the bread.

And so things reverted to how they once were, how they were _meant_ to be, or so they both liked to believe. Of course, their relationship grew even more complex with age, as most relationships do—Katniss's perpetual moodiness could not be solved by Peeta letting her borrow a crayon, as it once had—but in the end, she always came back to him, even if they were merely _just friends._ When they were fourteen, and Gale asked Katniss to the homecoming dance, which resulted in her being crowned his girlfriend, Katniss would end up crawling through Peeta's creaky window at least twice a week, simply to lay with Peeta and tell him about her and the eldest Hawthorne's latest dispute. She put her climbing skills to good use, as there was a knotty oak tree leading up past the second-story window of the bakery which piloted her directly to Peeta's room. The two of them would splay their restless bodies atop his pale orange comforter as she relayed the details of the fight, and he would talk _on_ and _on_ (he was the expert talker, she was the expert listener) about trivial matters that provided exactly what she needed—a distraction—and eventually they would reduce to piles of giggles. By the time she had to leave for the night, she would almost forget that it had been anger that'd brought her there in the first place.

But things changed when they were fifteen. It had been obvious that Mrs. Mellark was incompatible with her family for years, as Mr. Mellark and the second-eldest brother, Hans, were almost as inherently compassionate and gentle as Peeta (only the oldest brother, Soren Mellark, bore any dispositional resemblance to the mother), so it was hardly a surprise when she decided the life she'd been building for over two decades did not suit her. Katniss crawled into Peeta's window that night to complain about Gale's most recent pigheaded contention to find her boy with the bread curled up on his ginger bedspread, his eyes shimmering from crying, curls disheveled into wayward tendrils. He told her he'd come home from school to find his father locked away in his study, waiting until dinnertime to tell Peeta and Hans (Soren was off at the University of Pennsylvania) that their mother had left without so much as a goodbye. Peeta may not have gotten along with the woman, but she was still his mother, and his spirit was too gentle and too kind to brush off her departure with no anguish. Peeta was everything Katniss wasn't: he loved too readily, too wholly, while she was guarded and hesitant.

That same year, Peeta's left knee began giving him trouble, which could've been easily ignored if it weren't for his exalted position on Panem High's wrestling team. He fought through the pain for most of the season, but near the end, the injury became so severe that he was forced to hobble around on crutches for three weeks. This bound him primarily to the house where he spent more time painting than usual, and because he'd always been there for her when she needed it, Katniss ditched many of her typical forest-filled afternoons with Gale to accompany her best friend. Peeta's father had grown distant much like Mrs. Everdeen had after her husband's death, and Hans was perpetually engaged elsewhere, so Katniss's company was never unwelcome. It did strain her already choppy relationship with Gale, however, and by the time spring was in full bloom, the meadow just to the north of the district sprinkled with dandelions, he and Katniss mutually agreed to end what they had. Soon after, he began dating one of Katniss's few friends, Madge Undersee, which was more of a relief to Katniss than a source of jealousy or frustration. It left her feeling less guilty about her consecutive afternoons with Peeta. Even if they were _just friends_, outside of Madge and Gale and, of course, her beloved little sister, Katniss devoted nearly all of her free time to her slice of sunshine, to her boy with the bread, who painted beautiful portraits of her and baked her cheese buns whenever he thought her cheeks were looking a little too sunken-in. He was the only person she'd accept "charity" from, if they could even call it that. He always told her, "Just lend me one of those pretty little smiles of yours." He considered that payment enough.

She gave them to him willingly.

They spent most of that summer before their junior year indoors, Katniss lending a helping hand at the bakery, since Hans was preparing for college and Soren refused to come back home without Mrs. Mellark present. She couldn't frost even a cupcake to save her life—Peeta was the master when it came to decorations, while Katniss specialized in extremely complex tasks, such as sweeping the floor and eating all the leftover or half-burnt pastries after close—but the extra help was always welcome. After all, Mr. Mellark grew more reclusive than he'd been before his wife had left, and while Peeta was off his crutches, his bad knee still limited his mobility. Besides, Katniss needed the money, and it put more food on the table for her ascetic mother and her precious sister than they'd had in years.

Junior year began as anticlimactically as any year before, but by the time fall dusted over the valley in which Panem was lodged, their worlds were flipped upside down. Peeta had missed a day of classes in early October to visit a doctor about his knee, which at that point, had grown so swollen and sore that he couldn't put any weight on it. Katniss had texted him after school to see if she was allowed to come over, and when he didn't respond, she shrugged it off at first, but something in the corner of her mind had begun to poke at her conscience, the noise in her head growing louder and louder with every passing hour. But once Panem was submerged in nightfall, her phone still remained silent. After Prim was fed and settled in front of their meager excuse of a television set, Katniss darted to the heart of the small town where the Mellarks' bakery and home was settled.

The lights were off. The premises were silent. Without even a moment of deliberation—which is how nearly every decision of Katniss's was made—she found herself scaling the side of the oak tree, settling on the branch that webbed out just underneath Peeta's window so that her nimble fingers could shove up the wood-trimmed pane. She tumbled inside effortlessly.

Peeta was propped up on the edge of the bed, his comforter stretched across the mattress without a single crease, as if no one had touched it in years. His hands were folded on his lap neatly, his body angled toward the window, his eyes void of all surprise.

It was clear that he was expecting her.

For the first time in her life, Katniss found herself genuinely startled by Peeta. That was _her_ job, to do the surprising. Katniss may have been relatively easy to read (she wasn't a great actress) but in no way was she _predictable_, but here Peeta was, forecasting her every motion.

"Peeta?"

His celestial eyes were flat. He didn't even attempt to ease her into his confession, knowing she coped with blunt news better than evasive circumvention. _He_ was the one that fell for the flowery language, not Katniss.

"They think I have a tumor."

His six words floored Katniss. They flattened her every organ until she couldn't breathe, until her heart couldn't pump blood through her body, until she couldn't feel a single nerve in her system except for the violent pain that fired down her spine.

She choked.

"_What?_"

His finger barely brushed his knee as he motioned to the joint. "They have a name for it. It's like… Telekinesis Osteoporosis or something like that. In my femur. Somewhere. Above my knee. I don't—I don't really _know_, Katniss—"

His timbre was flat, low, and grated as if it was full of gravel, but she could sense the slight wavering in his tone; she knew this voice of his better than anyone else would, as it was the tone he pushed whenever he was trying to feign composure but was rapidly beginning to lose it. Even in the dark, she could see the tip of his nose is growing red—a telltale sign of eminent tears—and without thinking, she flung herself to the bed at his side, her arms draping over his shoulders as she pressed her forehead against his neck.

She didn't know what to tell him. She'd never been good with words.

"It's… it's going to be alright, isn't it?" she managed to stutter after a moment of silence. His arm snaked around her side, dragging her closer to him, and she began to wonder if he needed to feel her beside him just as much as she needed to feel his heart beating.

_It has to be alright_, she repeated in her head, over and over, until her body refused to entertain any other possibility, because Peeta was her best friend, and there was no way that fate would rip both her father _and_ her closest companion from her in a five-year span. She couldn't even begin to comprehend a world without her boy with the bread. It wasn't just that she didn't want to, it's that she simply _couldn't_. Her earliest memories were all comprised of Peeta's golden curls and his confused, trusting blue eyes and the dimples in his cheeks and his sixty-four pack of crayons and his cheese buns. She had grown around Peeta like a vine against a wall; with him here, she was defined, supported, able to blossom.

Without him, she would crumple into a network of starved stems on the ground, thirsting for the sunlight she couldn't reach.

After what felt like years, he finally told her, "They don't know if it's a tumor for sure, or even if it's malignant. The x-rays didn't look good, but… I'm getting a biopsy done next week, so they'll know for certain if it's this Telekinesis Osteoporosis thing."

If the situation had not been so severe, his inability to name the disease—_Telangiectatic Osteosarcoma_—might have actually made her laugh. But just the possibility of her best friend having cancer, his life lodged in limbo… it wrecked her, flooding her brain with a harsh tangle of thoughts that was so tightly coiled she couldn't possibly make sense of any of it.

"And… what will happen if it is?" she prodded back, locking her jaw as she braced herself for the answer she knew was coming but was afraid to hear.

But he surprised her for the second time that night, his finger crooked under her chin, lifting her face so that he could look at her fully. A tendril of golden hair swept over his forehead, and for a split second she ached to sweep it from his face, but his eyes captured hers without any guarantee of letting her gaze free, and she found she couldn't look away.

Even in this moment of uncertainty, his stare was implausibly sturdy, resolute in its assurance.

"We'll get through it," he told her, his lips sealing it off as a promise, and she cashed it as such. It was her contract for him to sign, and he'd donated her his signature.

_They'd get through it._

Her hand flattened against his chest, fingers splaying over the fabric of his shirt. "Just tell me what I can do, Peeta. I'll do anything."

She saw a flash behind his eyes, as if a thought had just occurred to him, but he didn't gift her with any confession as to what it was. Instead, he told her delicately, "Just lend me one of those pretty little smiles of yours." As if that would be enough—and maybe it would, because up until that point, it always had.

And, although it was certainly far more difficult than usual, she complied. The grin didn't touch many of her features, but at least she tried, and she knew he would at least appreciate the effort. Besides, could he possibly expect her to offer him a genuine smile after he just told her that the _one_ constant in her life may lose its consistency? To Katniss, Peeta _was_ stability. She needed him to remain as such.

Neither of them were very tired, both wired awake from the onslaught of jumbled thoughts, so she pawed her way back on the bed, dragging him with her. The two of them laid themselves on top of his comforter as they had so many nights before, but instead of distracting themselves from trivial afflictions with their typical banter, they found themselves smothered by a choking silence. She felt him lace in his fingers with hers, the gesture surely out of a platonic need for comfort rather than anything romantic, but it still electrified her, and she wanted to kick herself for every moment in which she'd rejected his touch. Even with those days—_especially_ with those days—from so many years ago, back when she'd tried to replace Peeta's compassion with Gale's temporary diversion, she prayed she could go back and relive them a million times over until she got it right. How many experiences with him had she passed up?

She rolled on her side, inching closer to Peeta, her face finding the crook of his neck again. His skin was heated, barring the cold that threatened them from outside his window, the fragrance of cinnamon and dill circling from his clothes. It was an odd combination but so characteristically _Peeta_ that it comforted her, even if only for a few moments at a time.

They didn't speak at all, just focusing on synchronizing their breathing, on committing the pace of the other's heartbeat to memory. Katniss was sure that Peeta wanted to say something, because there was hardly ever a time in which Peeta _didn't_ have something to say, but she hypothesized that his mind was too crowded, the words tangled and indiscernible on his tongue. And, of course, Katniss flourished in her own reticence, so she was never expected to be the one to speak first.

Surprisingly enough, however, after nearly an hour of silence, _she_ was the first to shatter the quiet by saying what both of them had been too terrified to admit.

"You can't die, Peeta."

Underneath her flattened palm, she felt his heartbeat spike for a moment. He turned his head slowly to her, and if she didn't know better, she'd almost say he pressed a kiss to her forehead. But they were _just friends_, so she wrote it off as her imagination, forcing herself to ignore the dull ache between her legs that she didn't really understand.

He tried to make light of the situation in typical Peeta fashion.

"I _can't_?" She heard a hint of a smile in his voice, and even though it was not as warm and genuine as usual, she was glad that he was at least trying to bring a little sunlight into the dark room thickened with silence.

"You literally can't. You don't deserve to."

"I'm afraid that's not how it works," he whispered back almost immediately, and she could feel her heart plummet, but thankfully, he recovered before she could dwell on his admittance for too long. "But if you say so, I guess I'll keep kicking. That's only because you're the expert on this kind of thing."

She was half-thankful that he decided to inject some jollity into the otherwise gloomy conversation, but still, it didn't seem to ease her terror.

"Peeta, I…" And, once again, Katniss was rendered speechless. _I… what? I can't let you leave me? I want you in my life? I _need _you there?_

She felt him sigh. "It's so early, Katniss. Things will probably be alright. Even if it _is_ that Telekinesis Osteoporosis—" _God dammit with that name again_—"the doctors said they can perform surgery on my leg. They… they said I can pull through. I'm going to be okay, Katniss." His voice lowered as his nose brushed over her pulsing temple. "I'm just… I'm scared."

She wanted to tell him, _I'm scared, too_, but she decided in that moment that she needed to be strong for Peeta. When she lost her father, and when things were rough with Gale, Peeta had always been steadfast at her side. It was her turn to repay the favor.

She'd always owed him, anyway.

"Don't let yourself be afraid, Peeta. You're strong. Give yourself reasons to be alive."

He smiled down at her, the dimples creasing in his cheeks, flaunting that at least this grin was _partially_ genuine.

"I have one right here," he told her, tapping the pad of his index finger against her nose playfully, and she tried to ignore the pull in her chest that his comment had triggered.

They decided not to delve into the subject any further, settling into a silence that may have still suffocated them but was certainly more manageable than the last. After a while, Katniss heard Peeta yawn, so she concluded her welcome was expended. She bid him goodnight, ignoring the tension straining in her belly to hold him closer to her for just a moment longer and give him a good-night kiss, now fully aware of just how precious every gesture had become.

She would not realize until a year later that, after she had left, he'd slipped from the bed and flicked on his light, seating himself at the mahogany-tainted desk beside the window, pulling out a fresh leaf of lined paper and doodling a list in his neat, stereotypically-Peeta scrawl. It was what had flashed through his mind when she'd whispered, _Just tell me what I can do, Peeta. I'll do anything_. And then, again, when she'd directed, _Give yourself reasons to be alive._

He would do just that.

In his list, he recorded a set of ten things that he promised himself he would have to finish before he allowed himself to give up, the end of the list presenting deeds far more difficult than the beginning, the last few most likely unattainable, but he didn't care.

These were his reasons to be alive. To _stay_ alive.

And that is why, in the middle of an early October night, a sixteen-year-old Peeta Mellark sat hunched at his desk, writing a record of ten activities he would end up spending his entire life working toward.

A bucket list.

* * *

_There you have it! Any feedback, by way of reviews, PMs, or tumblr asks, are always welcome._

_Oh, and here's a little fun-fact: I was looking up names for Peeta's brothers—I thought it'd be cool to make the Mellark family of Scandinavian descent—when I ran across Peeta's name! Apparently, it's Scandinavian, too, and it means "Rock" which I think is pretty fascinating and true to Peeta's character (in the sense that he's sturdy and resilient). A homophone for a type of bread, yes, but at least it can be taken a little deeper than that. ;)_

_Have a wonderful weekend!_


	2. Chapter 1 - Prom

_Thank you so much for the follows/favorites/reviews! I was absolutely blown away with the response the prologue got... I always forget how kind people on this site can be. I'll try not to let you down with this chapter! ;)_

_Also, quick shout-out to **SFCBruce** for helping iron out some of the wrinkles in this chapter, yet again. On that topic, if anyone is up for putting up with my snarly plots and awkward grammar and be a full-blown beta for this fic, shoot me a PM!_

* * *

**010. Go to Prom**

Katniss grows accustomed to masking her horror, however difficult at first, as she watches her best friend's life corrode right in front of her.

In October of his junior year, Peeta is diagnosed with Telangiectatic Osteosarcoma in his distal femur. He's pulled from school so he can face round after round of chemotherapy, which causes her sunshine boy to sleep more, eat less, and lose his golden hair. Yet, even on his worst mornings, his eyes are bright and she finds him smiling, the sun still shining from his expression. She can't imagine a day in which Peeta _couldn't_ manage to find an opportunity to shove some unwarranted optimism into their lives; he's always searching for hope and finds it in the most bizarre of places, but that's the Peeta she's grown to adore.

Yet, his withering condition still gnaws at her, even if _he_ doesn't show his distress. Katniss has always been the worrier of the two.

On one evening in February, Katniss trudges through the high dunes of snow that litter their tiny town and scales the tree beside the bakery, thankful once she comes across the lifted pane of Peeta's window. She's grateful he always sleeps with it open, even in the heart of winter, when their tiny Pennsylvanian town is smothered in arctic temperatures. When she stumbles through the opening, she finds Peeta sitting at his desk, hands crooked behind his head.

He's been waiting for her.

"What'd the doctor say?" she questions, breathless, kicking off her leather hunting boots so she can curl up on his bed, bringing her icy toes to her almost-but-not-quite-as-icy fingertips. Peeta spares her the discomfort and lifts himself from the swivel chair at his desk, and while carefully avoiding putting any weight on his left leg, he crawls beside her and takes her feet into his hands. She gasps a little at the contact, reveling in just how _warm_ his palms feel, and how comical the sight is of his large baker's hands completely engulfing her tiny feet.

"Shit, Katniss. Your feet are freezing," he hisses.

"That's what happens when you trudge half a mile in a borderline-blizzard to ask your friend a question _he still has yet to answer._"

He chuckles at her, always more amused than deterred by her crossness, which is probably why the two of them hardly ever argue. Although the girl practically lives in a constant state of irritation, Katniss notices that Peeta, even with his poor health, is seemingly incapable of growing irritated with her. She can only imagine how much worse she'd be if _she_ had cancer, not him.

His eyes zero in on her feet to pointedly avoid her glare; she watches as he draws his lower lip between his teeth, which he always does when he's fighting for the right words to say. It's her cue to brace herself.

"Peeta—"

"Well, as of right now I'm not going to get my leg amputated, so that's always a plus," he tosses her way, his tone uncomfortably light; she knows there's more beyond what he's started to tell her, that he's just attempting to cushion her fall. That's what Peeta does best. _Cushion_. She knows that he's well aware she prefers bluntness over evasiveness, but it's something he's always struggled with. Something he probably always will.

She guesses that's what happens when you're good with words. You ruthlessly use them to avoid things.

"_Peeta_." It spurts from her lips a little more forcefully this time.

Finally, his eyes lift to hers as the heels of his hands knead the soles of her feet. If her heart wasn't pounding so rapidly from her anxiety over what he was about to tell her, she'd actually take the time to savor the feeling. She loves his hands.

He sighs.

"They're taking me to Pittsburgh."

Her heart coils between her ribs. "For what?"

"Apparently, my initial response to the chemotherapy wasn't 'ideal,' so they're sending me up to Pittsburgh. A hospital there has the drug I need, and their doctors are more adept at administering it, so I'll undergo treatment there for two days and then wait at least another 19 before going back to Pittsburgh to do it all over again. They said I'll go through at least three cycles of treatment, with radiation, and if it's effective... I guess they're hoping I won't need surgery." He attempts to relay the doctor's proposal while keeping his voice light, but his disregard of the severity of the situation doesn't ease the flipping in her stomach. She stubbornly folds her arms over her chest, her lips pursing, eyebrows knit together.

His fingers become more gentle on her feet, swiping over her toes unhurriedly, and she finds that he's watching her with his attentive blue gaze. _Why is he looking at me like that?_ she thinks to herself, but the answer hits her the moment the question diffuses in her head. Of course. Peeta's more concerned over her reaction than he is of his own health.

Not only is the boy optimistic, but he is outrageously selfless, too.

"At least… I mean, at any rate, it'll make you better, right?" she offers weakly. She knows how strenuous the chemotherapy has been on Peeta so far, and she guesses this process will only make things worse, and there is little in this world that Peeta deserves _less_ than pain. But if it keeps him alive, and restores his health at least partially… she can't complain. "This is a good thing," she finishes quietly, not quite convinced, but she knows it's what he wants to hear from her.

In response, he gifts her with one of his award-winning smiles.

"That's my girl."

* * *

Before she can blink once, her sunshine has been ripped from their tiny town, leaving nothing but a starved, frightened moon. She curls up in her creaky twin bed, the sheets raveled around her frigid toes, and she hugs her pillows to her, but it's a pathetic replacement for her best friend. She doesn't sleep.

Before she can blink twice, the sun returns to Panem, only his rays are dimmed now, his eyes dull and his smile forced. She comes to his window to find the pane closed tight; once she struggles through the frame, she sees him splayed over his comforters, fast asleep. He must've been too tired upon his return to even open the window. She crawls up beside him, tucking herself in his arms. He doesn't even stir.

He's not the same when he's awake—which is quite a phenomenon of its own, considering the boy sleeps and sleeps and _sleeps—_and although she initially tries to pass it off as fatigue, she soon realizes the drugs and the radiation have had a much greater toll on her best friend than either of them could've predicted. This entire process has sequestered parts of him she used to love so dearly, replacing them with darker traits that frighten her and make him less and less like the boy who's supposed to be her everything. He becomes far more hesitant, guarded, favoring silence over prattling on about whatever floats to his mind; Katniss quickly notices just how much she misses his running dialogues and smiles and hugs and everything that made him so definitively _Peeta_ and so different from everyone else.

One of the hardest pills to swallow is that although he doesn't tell Katniss he wants her to stay away from him, it's clear he doesn't crave her company the way he used to, because he no longer curls up with her on his bed.

In fact, he doesn't touch her anymore.

This goes on for week after week, and it's barely noticeable at first, but soon reality is nearly screaming its sadistic truth in her ear. By the time Peeta's in his second month of treatment, and on his third cycle of chemotherapy (since each lasts three weeks), his father tells her that the doctors have diagnosed Peeta with depression. Apparently, the condition is not uncommon for cancer patients enduring intensive chemotherapy, but the regularity of the disorder does not comfort her like Mr. Mellark had intended. She misses her sunshine boy with his dimples and his gentle blue eyes and his readiness to welcome her into his room at night, who would let her double-knot his shoelaces for him, who would paint portraits of her and marvel at her abilities to take out nearly anything with her shotgun.

She waits until it's all over, until March turns into April which blossoms into May, and Peeta's treatment ceases. He calls her one day to tell her the tumor is gone, but his voice is quiet and not at all triumphant like it should be, so she promises she'll be over in five minutes to celebrate.

And he turns her down. He says he needs to sleep.

As each day passes, Katniss begins to feel more and more alone. The boy that had once been her best friend, her sunshine, her entire universe all wrapped in one, has vanished. But Katniss, with her stubborn conviction, refuses to let go of him, just as he once refused to let go of her.

So one night in May, she waits until the early hours of the morning to flit up Peeta's tree, slithering through his open window, letting herself into his bed as if she was always welcome there. Once, she had been. And she's determined to be again.

Peeta often sleeps on his back, and tonight his arm is extended across the bed, and she snuggles up against his side as if he'd left the open space just for her. At the first contact, Katniss feels him automatically stiffen against her body.

"K-Katniss?"

She nuzzles deeper into his chest just as she used to, before he began shutting her out. The gesture is mostly to remind him of how sincerely she cares for him, but she can't deny that it's also partially to soothe the ache that's been lodged in her chest for weeks. Although he never directly demanded she not touch him, his embraces have been so much less receptive as his treatment advanced. She knows his detachment isn't because he doesn't care for her anymore, because she knows Peeta well enough to know he'll _never_ stop caring for her; rather, the treatment seized his sense of control, draining him of all energy and diminishing his capacity for patience. In his depression, Peeta felt broken.

He _feels_ broken.

And she knows exactly what that's like.

She wants to restore this balance of power, somehow, by any means possible; she knows it's what she has to do to bring back her boy with the bread. If she can convince him that he's still in control of his own life, that he's not been abandoned, maybe he'll return to her.

"We were eleven when my father died," she begins, unsure of exactly where this quasi-prepared speech will take her, since speaking has never been her forte. "And I was so convinced that if I pushed you away, I would be able to somehow find my own strength again, by myself, because I wanted to be independent. Do you remember that?"

She feels him sigh, although the tension that wires his body still holds him stiff against her. "I do."

"You gave me the bread and showed me that, sometimes, the way to find strength is to let people help you get there. I always thought power was about self-sufficiency, but you showed me that, sometimes, the most empowering thing I can do is let people help me up when I've fallen down instead of struggling to get up on my own. Do you remember that?"

His arm, which has been lying limp underneath her, flexes below her shoulder and curls so that his fingers barely brush over her shoulder blade. Even a stroke so fleeting, so soft, makes her skin feel like flame, because it's the first time in months that he's reached out on his own to touch her.

"I do," he reiterates.

"And it was so foolish of me to think that things would get better if I pushed people away. I thought that would make me feel in control of my own fate again. But I was wrong. I was _stupid_, Peeta. Do you remember that?"

Even with the uniform cocktail of cricket chirps, bird songs, and the silky breeze beyond the window, Katniss swears she can hear him smile though the dark before he says, once again, "I do."

She's confident he's acutely aware of where she's going with this, and so she spares him the suspense and slams him with the crux of her speech.

"Well, I think you're being stupid, Peeta," she tells him, blunt as ever.

She melts a little when she hears him chuckle at her side, his breath sweeping over her temple. "Katniss Everdeen, always so considerate of the feelings of others."

"I'm serious. For someone who's always done everything in his power to get me to open up, you sure as hell are talented at walling yourself in. Some days, it's almost like I don't know you anymore, Peeta. And that hurts. You've always been my best friend."

A stodgy silence, thick as syrup, pours over them as he lifts the hand that's not caressing her back to run it through the soft golden down that's begun to grow over his skull again. God, she'd missed his hair.

She surprises herself when it's her voice that slices through the quiet.

"I miss you, Peeta." She says it in the present tense, because she still misses him even in this moment, since she's unsure if the boy in her arms is the boy he used to be. Her words are a desperate plea as she calls her lost friend back to her, back home.

He strums her heartstrings when he tells her, "I've missed you, too," because there's something in _his_ verb tense that seems so conclusive, as if it's promising an end to his distance. As if he _is_ home, here, now, with her.

Before she can even conjure up some measly reply, she suddenly feels his arms wrapping around her, anchoring her to his warm body underneath the pale orange bedspread. She's vaguely aware of the thumping of her heartbeat and the electrifying heat pooling in her belly, and she does everything in her power to disregard them.

"I'm sorry for being such a terrible best friend," he murmurs thickly, his voice tangling in her disheveled braid as he holds her. "I just... I haven't felt like myself lately. I feel so drained and ugly and weak, and I can't move or eat like I used to. I can't even paint. And, on top of all that, the doctors say that the cancer might come back, and it's so exhausting to think that after all this, it might not be over. That this may _never_ be over."

Even though his words wring her heart like a dirty dishcloth, she's thankful he's at least opening up to her again. That he's _talking._ She missed his voice. "I know, Peeta. But you can't let the uncertainty dictate your life. What happened to the optimistic boy that used to think he was invincible?"

Although he chuckles, she can hear that it's only half-hearted. "I never thought I was invincible, Katniss. I just used to think that there was no point in being negative."

"Right. So leave all the negativity to me, Mellark. I do it best."

This time, the laugh that rumbles in his chest is more genuine, and she feels herself smile at the sound.

"You do have a point." He sighs. "I really am sorry, Katniss... I shouldn't have shut you out. You deserve better. What can I do to make up for it?"

In the darkness, she can't tell where her body ends and his begins, their figures no more than a mesh of black and grey, her heat twined in with his, his breath synchronized with hers. She decides she likes it this way.

Her mind immediately latches on to the response he used to give her time and time again.

"Just lend me one of those pretty little smiles of yours," she replies evocatively. She feels him grin against her temple.

* * *

As the summer grows hotter, the tension between them soothes. Although it takes several laborious weeks, as recovery from chemotherapy and his consequent depression is far from instantaneous, the sunshine boy and the lunar girl slowly ease back into the simplicity and the coziness of how things were before. Although Peeta is still bound to crutches and his energy has yet to fully return, his spirits have certainly risen, and the two are, once again, as thick as thieves.

Due to the numerous weeks of school he missed, Peeta has significant ground to cover to graduate on time, and even though she's never been able to boast paramount grades, Katniss is surely not unintelligent. She and a friend by the name of Delly Cartwright—a slightly chubby yet naturally attractive blonde who's fostered a crush on Peeta for years—team up to tutor him on the weekends through the fall and winter months.

It's a particularly bitter day in February when the three of them find themselves pent up in the school's pitiable excuse of a library, hunched over their biology textbooks as they collectively attempt to cognize the process of meiosis. Delly leans back, nibbling on the end of her pencil as she asks them about prom.

"Do either of you have dates?"

Katniss stares back at the blonde blankly, glancing nervously to Peeta, who is donning the same bemused expression as she, and her stomach flips as she tries to stifle a giggle. Almost thirteen years later, and Katniss still adores Peeta's wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights expression.

Delly rolls her eyes at the two of them dismissively. "Oh, please. Don't tell me you haven't even thought about it yet. It's in less than three months!"

Truth be told, Katniss hadn't even given it a moment's consideration. Peeta was barely out of the hospital during their junior prom, so neither had wanted to attend last year; Katniss assumed this year would be the same. Unless Peeta asked her, there'd be nothing on this earth that could possibly coerce her into making an appearance. And because it's their senior prom, she resolves that if Peeta does go, he deserves to go with someone better, someone prettier and kinder than Katniss.

An _actual date_.

As Katniss and Peeta's silence amplifies, Delly gapes at them like they've both admitted to living on Mars. "Guys… it's our _senior prom_! Do you know how big of a deal this is?"

"Obviously not," Katniss shoots back, half-amused with Delly's overzealous reaction. "It's just a stupid dance."

Delly appears to be personally wounded by Katniss's indifference; after all, no one could be quite as obsessed with stereotypical high school "rites of passage" as Delly Cartwright, Panem High's bubbly romantic. "It's one of the most _magical_ nights of a young girl's _life_, Katniss Everdeen!"

Katniss is about to laugh at Delly's dramatization when she notes that Peeta has been awfully quiet at her side. Her gaze flickers over to him for a split second before lurching back to Delly, but the glance is enough for her to notice that his eyes are pinned on his lap, hands folded over the textbook, cheeks the shade of wild cherries.

She struggles to conceal her confusion; Katniss has never been a talented actress.

A triumphant grin sweeps over Delly's plump lips. "See, even Peeta agrees with me!"

She sees his eyes flicker apologetically up to hers, widening in embarrassment, his fists clenching. "No, Katniss is right. It's just a stupid dance," he asserts, but his tone is hardly convincing. It only deepens her confusion, and if there's one thing that Katniss knows, it's that she prefers being the mystery, not the detective.

When their tutoring session comes to a close, and Katniss carries Peeta's books as he shuffles on his crutches to his car (although he's allowed to walk without them, he says it's less painful this way), she watches him the whole while, trying to decipher his expression.

Once they reach the vehicle, she presses a palm firmly to his chest. The force almost topples him over, but he somehow manages to regain his footing despite the thin sheet of ice spanning over the asphalt.

"Peeta, what was going on in there?" she almost barks.

He frowns, playing the clueless card. "I don't know what you're talking about."

But he does, she _knows_ he does, and she has little patience for his typical evasiveness. Her fingers, tucked in the pocket of her mittens, curl around the fabric of Peeta's jacket, holding him in place. She's always been the aggressive half of the pair. "Don't play dumb, Peeta."

The air between the two of them is so frigid, so dry and crisp, and she watches white swirls curl from his mouth as he breathes, quickly at first, then slower, the wisps growing more intricate. His lips are a dark shade of pink, and his tongue darts out over them to keep them from chapping, and for a split second she wonders what it would be like if she parted through his visible breath and pressed her own icy lips into his and—

A painful shock pulses through her entire body as she grows rigid. No, she didn't just think about kissing her best friend. Of course she didn't. They're _just friends._

She forces herself to meet his gaze and she notices that his cheeks are flushed. She prays that it's merely from the cold and _not_ because he noticed her staring at his lips.

_Shit._

What is wrong with her?

He takes a deep breath, effectively derailing her train of thought. "The night that I told you I'd gone to the doctor for some x-rays, and they said I might have cancer—"

"Peeta, what does this have to do with prom?" she interrupts, exasperated, her own cheeks surely pink from embarrassment.

"Trust me," he pleads, and his celestial eyes are so sincere that she does as instructed without second thought. After all, when has he given her reason _not_ to trust him? "Anyway, when you crawled through my window that night, you said some things to me. You said you'd do anything for me—" _Still true_, she thinks to herself—"and that I should find reasons to be alive. And… well, I did. I found reasons to stay alive. Ten, to be exact."

Her brow is creased in confusion. God, why did the boy have to be so ambiguous? "What are you saying?"

He hisses out a sharp sigh, and his eyes flicker up to the sky as if he's praying for a deity to help him find the words to tell her, and she wonders when it became so difficult for him to talk to her. He's always had a silver tongue, but recently, she's seemed to have rendered him speechless on multiple accounts.

He abandons all elusiveness and spits it out.

"I wrote a bucket list, Katniss."

She cocks an eyebrow. _That's it?_ Even _she_ had made a bucket list when she was younger—granted, there was something about a unicorn and castle written into hers, so she doesn't know how legitimate her own bucket list could be considered. But, especially since his own life was in limbo at this time last year, recording a set of aspirations doesn't seem too odd to her.

And considering that even though Peeta's in remission of the cancer _now_, the doctors can't promise it won't ever come back... she can't blame him for still holding onto it.

"Peeta, that's…" She frowns. "How does this have to do with prom?"

He runs his fingers though his golden curls, which have grown back thick and lush, covering his frost-bitten ears. And then his gaze falls back on her. Blue meets silver, and for a moment, she feels weightless.

_What is wrong with her today?_

"That was the first thing on my bucket list," he tells her, his voice trapped in the cold February airstream. "Go to prom."

Her chest caves a little, and she tries to cover her reaction up with a weak smile, but it's hardly effective.

Truthfully, she'd love to go to prom with Peeta. He'd be the only person capable of making that stupid affair bearable, dare she say possibly _enjoyable_, and she's always wanted to see him in a bowtie... but the boy deserves a real prom date. After all he's been though, he's at least earned himself a night out with a beautiful girl who'll let him take her to dinner beforehand and book a hotel room afterward just like they do in the shitty chick-flicks both she and Peeta despise. He doesn't deserve being stuck with his mediocre-looking best friend who can't even walk in heels to save her life. (She'd wear her leather hunting boots to prom if it were up to her.)

She realizes she's still aggressively clutching the fabric of his jacket, and she releases it, folding her arms stubbornly over her chest.

"Well… I guess you could ask Delly," she tosses out, successfully avoiding his gaze.

He snorts. "What?"

She tries not to think about why his reaction almost makes her smile. "I mean, she was the one who brought it up. She thinks you're cute, you know. She's had a crush on you since the third grade."

Peeta doesn't say anything, and Katniss finds herself rambling on in the atypical absence of his commentary.

"She's kind of pretty, I guess—and you two would look nice together. You know, blonde hair, blue eyes—"

She hears him interject with a cautionary "Katniss," but she continues regardless.

"—and you wouldn't have to worry about planning activities or making reservations, because Delly likes to do that stuff, so the whole night would be pretty easy for you—"

"Katniss."

"—and she'd definitely get a blue dress, because she's romantic and girly and would look for a gown that'd bring out her eyes, and blue is a _wonderful_ color on y—"

"_Katniss._" His voice is more insistent, his tone deeper, and she finds herself involuntarily meeting his stare.

She almost chokes when she sees that his irises are shimmering, his lips pressed in a hard line, dimples carved deep into his rosy cheeks as he tries—and fails miserably—to muffle his amusement.

"If your obliviousness wasn't so funny, I'd find it almost tragic," he jests, his voice light and good-natured.

"Careful there, Mellark, or I'll make you capsize on your crutches."

"Touché," he chuckles, unable to contain his laughter anymore. "But please, enlighten me: What in the world would possess you to think I'd want to take _Delly Cartwright_ to my senior prom?"

She feels her cheeks blooming with heat. "You deserve a girl who can be an actual _date_ for you."

He shifts on his crutches as he rolls his eyes at her. "Who needs a date when you can drag your passive-aggressive best friend with you?" His smile is so wide that it almost overwhelms Katniss, and she decides that never has an insult sounded so beautiful. "I mean, the fact that my best friend is not a huge fan of prom may complicate things a bit, but I think her company would be more than enough to make the night perfect."

Katniss condemns herself for the fact that her stomach is flipping in celebratory cartwheels. Since when does anything about a stupid high-school dance excite her? "Are you asking me to prom, Peeta Mellark?"

"I'm sorry to ask you in such a boring way. I know how fond you are of grand, romantic gestures."

She wants to punch him, but the asphalt below their boots is too icy and, with her luck, she actually would knock him over.

Before she can even begin to formulate a response, he leans in a little closer, his tone smoothing out, the humor dissipating on cue. "Really, Katniss. I'm well aware of your vendetta against traditional festivities, and I'm not going to ask you to buy a five-hundred-dollar dress or wear heels or even dance, but… it really would mean a lot if you'd go to prom with me." He smiles guiltily. "At least so I can knock it off my bucket list."

She doesn't know what legitimate reason could possibly keep her from accepting his proposal, if such a reason existed. After everything he's ever done for her—offering her his friendship on their first day of kindergarten along with a cookie, lending her crayons, giving her two loaves of bread and a silent vow to be there for her if ever she needed it—she owed him this simple pleasure, if not more.

Even if this wasn't a matter of reparation, even if she owed him _nothing_, it was evident by the excitement in his blue eyes and the smile on his lips that her acceptance would mean the world to him, and there's little on this planet she values more than his happiness.

She offers her answer without thinking twice.

"As long as you keep your word about the heels."

* * *

Just as always, Peeta doesn't break his promise. It takes him weeks to talk her out of wearing her faded, creased hunting boots to prom; he takes her to a strip mall half an hour outside of Panem on one mild weekend in April where they compromise on a nice pair of ballet flats.

Katniss never imagined so much preparation could go into a three-hour affair, and after being personally victimized by Delly, Madge, and their friend Annie Cresta—by "victimized," she means "dragged against her will to a myriad of boutiques and salons"—it occurs to her just how much she detests the entire female species.

The girls are more than ecstatic to shove Katniss into dress after dress, because none of them can remember ever seeing Katniss in anything outside of faded t-shirts and jeans. Annie ribbons a baby blue gown around her and tells her, "This'll bring out Peeta's eyes," and all Katniss can do is gag. Too many sparkles. Too many rhinestones. Too much tulle. Too much... _girl._

It takes them several outings before they decide on a dress, and although her associates preferred other prospects, this one makes her feel the most comfortable and the least like an exotic, obnoxious pelican.

The day of prom, seemingly all the high school girls of Panem flock to salons to have their hair done in outrageous coiffures, their nails painted to match their dresses, their skin artificially tanned—Katniss thinks they all look like oompa-loompas, personally—but the lunar girl has other plans. She stays at home and lets Prim experiment with Madge's old curling iron on her impossibly long, thick mane. It's the first time in ages that she can remember not just slopping it back in a braid.

Prim was always the more feminine of the Everdeen sisters, her hands naturally gentle and steady—perfect for her dream career as a surgeon—unlike Katniss's, which were calloused from climbing so many trees, steady but harshly forceful. Prim had hands for healing, Katniss had hands for breaking things.

But after about two hours of Katniss sitting cross-legged in front of their ancient television set as she and her sister passively regard some lackluster cooking show, she decides if medical school doesn't work out for Prim, hairstyling certainly will. The girl's a natural. Additionally, the younger Everdeen offers to toy with Katniss's makeup, and since Katniss knows how to put on nothing beyond a thin coat of cheap drugstore mascara, she feels she has no option but to oblige. And although Prim's handiwork is not extremely intricate, she does manage to even out Katniss's complexion, dusting a thin layer of pale eye shadow over her lids, tipping it off with eyeliner and a thick coating of her own mascara that is of a much higher quality than her older sister's.

"One day, I hope I'm as pretty as you," Prim tells her as she guides Katniss to the mirror in their small bathroom, and before Katniss can contradict her sister, she's greeted by a girl on the opposite side of the glass that glowers at her under thick, dark lashes, her molten mercury eyes guarded and flustered.

The girl's lips, coated in a rosy sheen, part in surprise and then press together again, eyes growing wider, and Katniss tries to fight the smile that bubbles to her lips, because although this girl is beautiful, it is most definitely _her._ She looks the same as usual, just polished and refined, with thick curls cascading over her slim shoulders, still clad in a t-shirt. She's still human. She's still Katniss Everdeen. Not transformed, merely enhanced; exactly how she wanted it.

Mrs. Everdeen passes by the bathroom then, stopping in the doorway at the sight of her daughters gawking in the mirror; she drifts in silently, her feet hardly touching the floor as she glides—more like an apparition than a human—behind the two sisters. She cups a cold hand over Katniss's shoulder, her frail, thin fingers trembling against her daughter's heated flesh, a ghost of a smile breaking out over her pale, cracked lips. Mrs. Everdeen hardly speaks anymore, and when she does she typically murmurs nonsensical comments that her daughters have resigned from attempting to decrypt, but today, she whispers to her daughter's mane, "You have so much of your father in you." Katniss's stomach clenches and her throat thickens, as she knows it's one of the most sincere compliments she'll probably ever receive from her mother; she remembers little of Mr. Everdeen apart from how handsome he was with his cosmic irises, sharp nose, and broad shoulders. And, of course, that when he sang, even the birds stopped to listen. Peeta often tells her he passed that trait onto his eldest daughter, too.

Katniss offers her mother no more than a curt nod, because she's positive that if she does anything more she may break out into tears, and Katniss promised herself long ago that she would never cry because of her mother again. With that, she retreats to her room where she slips the gown she purchased from the hanger, stepping into it and zipping it up from the side. It fits like a glove _and_ conceals the sharpness of her bones well so that she, for once, actually looks healthy. She knows how concerned Peeta becomes when her ribs are visible and he can see the full extent of her undernourishment. This is his night. Her goal is to please him, not befall the subject of his worry.

She's just slipping into the white ballet flats that Peeta had bought her several weeks back when the sound of the doorbell ricochets off her walls, sending her stomach curling. She rushes down the main hall to find that Prim has already answered the door, and before her stands her sunshine boy clad in a black tuxedo, looking so much more healthy and strong and _confident _than he had a year ago. His skin is vibrant, curls styled perfectly out of his face, revealing his bright eyes and sharp jaw and soft lips pulled up in that beautiful, dimpled smile of his and—

She gasps.

"You're walking, Peeta."

He's poised in the doorway, shoulders so impossibly broad—when did that chubby blonde boy become the eighteen-year-old man standing in the threshold?—arms free of crutches as he holds a small white box in his hands. The corsage, most likely.

She hasn't seen him for over a year without crutches, or a wheelchair, and she blinks once, twice, but—

"I thought I'd try just one night without the crutches. I wanted to make you feel obligated to at least have _one_ dance with me." His voice sounds like silk, and he holds out the box for her as he appraises her, eyes raking over her from head to toe. In anyone else's stare, she'd feel uncomfortable, shriveling up under their gaze, but beneath Peeta's, she only feels emboldened. The way those blue eyes widen in amazement—how she _loves_ that—surely can't hurt, either.

Before he can say anything further, Prim shoves the two of them together and snaps a few obligatory prom photos before sending them on their merry way. She notices that Peeta's gait is hitched with a slight limp, but he's _walking_. Actually walking again.

She's reluctant to admit that maybe, just maybe, Delly hadn't been completely off the mark when she'd labeled senior prom as "magical."

Peeta steps ahead of her so he can open the passenger-side door of his black sedan for her—she's always thought his middle name might as well be Chivalry—and just as she's about to slip in, his fingers brush over her arm, capturing her attention. Her chin tweaks in his direction to find those two sky-born orbs much closer to her than she predicted, and she nearly stumbles back in surprise.

"I think your color scheme is far better than whatever _Delly Cartwright_ would've picked out." He winks, teasingly, always teasingly.

Her focus fixes on his bowtie and then the slivers of his vest that poke out from underneath the base of his lapels, both a soft shade of pale orange, which all match perfectly with her dress. The gown is simple, spilling down around her feet with a sweetheart neckline over her breasts (if she had cleavage, this dress would certainly flaunt that well), a thin string of peach-shaded roses attaching from the left side of the collar, flowing over her shoulder and rejoining with her dress in the back. The gown is not meant to accentuate the curves Katniss doesn't have, and it surely is not a dress that'll capture the attention of every eye she passes—no double-takes will be happening in her wake tonight—but it serves its purpose. It makes her both look and feel beautiful, for once. Truthfully, it's the first gown she's encountered that _doesn't_ make her want to vomit.

They drive to Undersee mansion—Mr. Undersee is Panem's mayor and, thus, has quite the magnificent home—where they're greeted by Madge and Gale, who's come back from college for the weekend to attend Panem High's prom with Madge for the _fourth year in a row_ (she'd pity him if he wasn't so in love with his girlfriend). Annie and her boyfriend, a man by the name of Finnick Odair who none of them have met, still have yet to arrive, along with Delly and her last-minute-pity-date, Thom. Upon arrival, Gale actually laughs at her, saying, "Hell must be freezing over, because if I didn't know better, I'd say Katniss Everdeen is actually wearing a dress." She responds with a terse "Fuck off, Gale," which has been their customary greeting.

Within minutes Annie pulls up, swinging on the arm of Poseidon himself. She introduces them to Finnick, her twenty-year-old boyfriend, who flashes them all with his blindingly white grin, canines and all. He kisses both Katniss and Madge's hands.

"_Enchanté._"

She hears Gale mutter to Madge, "Is this guy real?" She's thankful that her date is a little more receptive, accepting Finnick's hand warmly. But then again, Peeta has always been far more amicable than Gale.

Delly and Thom drop by soon after and the eight of them share an impossibly elaborate dinner in the Undersees' fully-garnished dining room, the décor around the table alone probably of greater value than every item in Katniss's shack combined. She feels oddly out of place here, as she always does whenever she visits the Undersee residence, eating a gourmet meal prepared by hands that've probably never been blackened by coal dust like hers. Although she's never actually been in the mines, her father was constantly covered in grime, and since she used to spend so much time with Mr. Everdeen, she'd been darkened by contact, too. It was always under her fingers, in her hair, reminding her schoolmates and herself of her destitution. It'd been the mark of poverty.

These past few years have been easier, now that Mrs. Mellark is gone and Mr. Mellark readily employs Katniss at the bakery, but she rarely has enough to eat regardless, and so she doesn't quite know what to do when a full plate of spaghetti is slid in front of her. She pushes it around with the silver prongs of her fork, hesitant to swirl it into her mouth. But after a few moments, she feels something brush over her knee and she immediately looks to her right where Peeta sits, reaching his hand below the table to rest a palm on her leg in response to her discomfort. Peeta's always been hopelessly receptive, able to decipher her moods like flashcards. She knows Peeta thinks she's easy to read, even if no one else does. But that's because he knows her better than anyone. And so, in this moment, she knows that _he_ knows she's hopelessly unprepared to handle this dinner, and he's just trying to calm her in typical Peeta-fashion.

She grows angry with herself, however, when her heart rate spikes at the feeling of his palm over her thigh. His touch _never_ used to do this to her. But, for some God forsaken reason, over the past year she's become more attuned to his contact, confused by her sensory responses.

She silently curses herself for her reaction, because they're _just friends._ There is no way that this is healthy, let alone normal. Especially since Peeta clearly doesn't think of her as anything more than a close companion, which he made implicitly clear when he told her, _Who needs a date when you can drag your passive-aggressive best friend with you?_ She knows that she's merely someone he cares about who he can use as a tool to knock wishes off his bucket list, in case the cancer comes back, which the doctors have warned him of. Not that she minds being his "tool". She owes him immensely.

After the dinner comes to a close, and all of them are primed to explode from the excess pasta—save Katniss, who hardly ate more than a few noodles—they make their way to the school, crowding into the dimly-lit, poorly-decorated gymnasium along with a horde of girls caked in too much makeup and sweaty boys that practically secrete Axe body spray.

"Wow, Delly was right. This place really _is_ magical," Katniss shouts to Peeta over the low rumble of the music, sarcasm dripping from each syllable. It's too loud to hear him, but she can still see his laughter brighten his face even in the harsh indigo lighting flooding the gym.

His mouth opens to reply, but the two of them are ripped forward before he can usher his response; she finds that Delly is grabbing them both, yanking them onto the dance floor. Katniss is almost thrown into Madge and Gale who are already pressed against each other, her back to his stomach, his hands dragging her hips against his, and Katniss's throat runs dry because she is _not_ prepared to stomach this sort of dancing. But she looks to her left and sees that Annie and her Poseidon-replica are participating, too—his lips are on her ear, and she's giggling, and Katniss whirls around to Peeta in panic.

"I'm not going to dance with you like that," she barks out before he can say anything, her tone as defensive as it would be if he'd openly asked her to grind with him. He surprises her by chuckling, shaking his head and responding with a lighthearted, "Didn't think you would."

For some reason, this settles oddly with her, compelling her to pry further.

"Why not?"

"Because you, Katniss Everdeen," he teases, his smile bright, "are so utterly _pure_ that the very idea of grinding probably makes you want to put on a turtleneck."

Regardless of how true his judgment is, the assumption still irritates her—does he really see her like that? As some virtuous little prude?—and it makes her blood bubble, heat wracking through her veins. Even though she's sure he didn't mean it as such, she takes it as a dare.

"_Pure_," she hisses back disgustedly as she whirls around, grasping the backs of his hands with her palms and sliding them to her hips as she presses up against him. Even over the pounding of the music, she can still hear the small sound of shock that bursts in the back of his throat, and it makes her smile contentedly. _She_ did that to him.

But it's her turn to emit some variation of a squeal when she feels his fingers hook against her dress, clutching her hips tighter against him as he leans to whisper in her ear, "You know, _this_ wasn't on my bucket list." The way his breath curls around her ear makes her clench her thighs together.

"I just like proving you wrong," she plays back triumphantly, and then she arches herself harder against Peeta. She doesn't know exactly what's possessing her to do this, to _keep_ doing this, but she finds that, strangely, she doesn't want to stop. The growl of the bass floods their ears, hijacking their senses, urging them onward and depleting their inhibitions. She feels Peeta against her backside, really _feels_ him, and it startles her at first but surely doesn't discourage her; she continues dancing with her best friend in a way that had mortified her only a few moments before, but now, seems completely normal.

This was definitely _not_ in her forecast for prom.

As the song tapers off at the end, Peeta surprises her by releasing his grip on her hips and swiveling her around so she can face him. A thin sheen of sweat beads at his hairline, and his breath is ragged, but his irises are bright with an emotion she doesn't quite understand but is curious to unfold.

"I think we should go get some punch," he tells her thickly, but she can sense that there's something beyond what he's saying. She just doesn't know what.

She smirks up at him before raising her thin fingers to straighten up his slightly-crooked bowtie. "Who's the _pure_ one now?" she provokes, lifting a thin brow.

"I think you're confusing 'pure' with 'dehydrated,'" he chuckles breathlessly as they begin their journey to the punch table, his limp hardly noticeable, and it's now that the horror begins to settle in her core. _Oh my god, what did I just do? _screams the voice in the head, and she's thankful for the dim lighting so that no one can pick up on her violent blush.

_Oh god. _

_She just did that with Peeta. _

_Her Peeta. _

_Her best friend. _

_Her "just friends" best friend._

Peeta pours them each a cup of punch before they settle themselves at a table in the corner of the gymnasium.

"So, is this night everything you'd imagined it'd be?" she jokes with a dry throat, masking her humiliation well, jostling him with her elbow.

He looks over at her playfully. "We've only had one song so far. I think it's a bit too soon to say. Although that last one was pretty fun." He bites his lip.

She would attempt to dismiss their recent endeavor with a joke if the fact that she'd danced like that, _with Peeta_, didn't utterly disgust her. That's not Katniss. Growing defensive and trying to prove people wrong? _That's _certainly in character, but grinding up against her best friend? She's used to curling up with him in his bed on a regular basis, but that seems so innocent compared to whatever they just did.

Fuck. Maybe she _is_ hopelessly pure.

She realizes she's been silent for too long when Peeta brushes his hand against hers, beaming her back down to the present. "So, is this night as awful as you thought it'd be?"

She shrugs, unsure of how to answer. _Peeta_ has sustained a perfect balance of humor and chivalry, but _she's_ made a complete idiot of herself, and they're only on the second song.

He must realize she's uncomfortable because he rapidly changes the subject, pointing out awkward couples freckling the dance floor. The two of them sit back and laugh at their classmates, some of whom are trying desperately to slow dance to a sped-up rap number, and it eases Katniss's nerves almost immediately. At least she hadn't been the only one to do something stupid.

After a while, Peeta coaxes her back to the dance floor, and although they consciously avoid dancing like that again, they still pass the night alongside their friends. Katniss would be lying if she said she wasn't at least mildly enjoying herself, especially with Peeta repetitively pressing a hand against the small of her back for occasional balance, other times to simply keep her near him. He whispers witty remarks in her ear over and over again, and she thinks to herself that she couldn't possibly enjoy prom without him, and warmth propagates through her belly when she realizes that she's giving him a good night, too.

When their time left is waning, the obnoxiously loud pop music fades into a softer number, and almost immediately the entire student body grows calm, couples pairing up and wrapping their arms around each other. She looks to Peeta for guidance, her eyes wide, and he concedes a small grin and wordlessly reaches out his palm.

She takes it willingly.

His hands find her waist again, but this time his touch is so much more gentle, and she drapes her arms over his shoulders, her fingers mindlessly sweeping through the soft curls at the base of his neck. He pulls her into him so that their bodies are flush up against the other, and in every place that they're joined she feels electricity transforming her skin into a live circuit board.

She watches him watch her, dragging his lower lip between his teeth, causing her breath to catch when he whispers, almost inaudibly but with unquestionable sincerity, "I should've told you earlier, but Katniss Everdeen, you are the most beautiful girl on this entire dance floor."

His voice is so tender that she almost considers that he means it as more than just what a teenager would say to his best friend, but she bites on the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood, because she cannot let herself believe that. She can't afford to think that way.

"I don't know. I could point out a dozen sets of fake lashes that prove otherwise."

He rolls his eyes at her, but within seconds his gaze is digging into hers again; she's unsure as to whether it's the dim lighting or something else that's making his pupils so wide, but regardless of justification, she cannot bring herself to look away.

"It's all fake, Katniss. All these massive ball gowns and pounds of makeup and fifty-dollar manicures… they're all trying to be the most stunning person here, to outshine the next girl in line, but you just… you're trying to be yourself. You're real, and you're beautiful."

She almost faints right there, in the middle of the gymnasium, but the support of his body and his arms manages to keep her upright.

"You have to say that. I'm your best friend."

"Yes, but that doesn't make it any less true," he tells her, and for some reason, she feels something in her chest plummet dramatically into her belly, her mouth drying in disappointment as she swallows roughly. _Just friends_. It echoes over and over again in the back of her mind. "And while I'm complimenting you, I might as well thank you for sacrificing your Saturday night to walk on broken glass with me."

She laughs. "It wasn't so bad, after all." She teases a curl at the nape of his neck, feeling goose bumps rise underneath her palm. The notion is oddly satisfying, so she continues to brush her fingers over his skin; she watches his eyes roll back a little, which elicits a small smirk from her lips. "To be honest, I think the night has been moderately successful."

"Yeah?" he lifts a brow.

"What else do you have on your bucket list that I can help you knock off?"

The look that manifests over his features must be one of the most adorably gratifying expressions she's seen from him in ages. It's almost as if she's just told him he's won the Nobel Peace Prize, or that he's entitled to a lifetime supply of chocolate.

"Plenty," he replies jubilantly, and he surprises her by tightening his grip around her, his fingers raking through her curls as he cradles her head against his chest. Unlike the bulk of the male students here, he smells more of cinnamon than of Axe, soothing her senses effortlessly.

She tries to pull away as she tosses back, "Well, what's next? We've got all night!" Yet his grip on her doesn't loosen, and he spins her back against him, bracketing her cheeks with his palms to keep her eyes secured with his.

"Patience, Ms. Everdeen. We've got all the time in the world."

And, for the first time since he was diagnosed with cancer nearly a year and a half ago, and underwent chemotherapy for the several following months, as Peeta holds her on the dance floor, standing unaided on his own two feet, it suddenly occurs to her that he's right.

They've got time.

At least, for now.

* * *

_Questions, comments, concerns are always welcome by way of reviews, PMs, or even Tumblr asks. And again, if you'd like to be a beta for this fic, shoot me a message. :)_

_Have a wonderful weekend!_


	3. Chapter 2 - Treehouse

**009. Build a Treehouse**

The next time Katniss sees Peeta without his crutches is when he's shrouded in a royal blue robe, identical to the one she's wearing, with a cap and a tassel. Watching her best friend walk—or limp, to be more specific—across the stage to receive his high school diploma makes her burst at the seams with an emotion she's only known in the company of her sunshine boy. It's a strange cocktail of pleasure and triumph, neither of which are too familiar to Katniss, and it almost _feels_ like sunshine. Golden, warm, contagious.

She's lying in his bed that night, belly flat against the wrinkly comforter with her chin angled toward him. He's on his side, propped up on an elbow, his baker's hands gently combing through the remnants of her braid. She hopes he doesn't notice the goose bumps puckering at her flesh with his contact.

"What are we going to do, now that school's officially over?" he croons, his voice brushing over her skin like velvet, ribboning around her ears. She sighs.

She shrugs, too. Taking to silence, as usual; he shouldn't expect much more from her.

He dips his head down, his breath trickling through her hair. "We need to add some _excitement_ into our lives."

"I think we've had enough excitement these past two years," she mumbles back flatly, because they have. Biopsies and chemotherapy and radiation and near-surgical experiences have poisoned both of their lives with enough melodrama to last a lifetime, and Katniss would much rather lead an existence of mind-numbing tedium than anything _close_ to what they've been through.

After all, wondering if her best friend was about to die for month after month made Katniss realize that, sometimes, monotony can be a beautiful thing.

He smiles sadly at her when she says this, his thumb hooking around a lock of her hair like a fishing line before leaning to press his forehead to hers. She lets her eyes flutter closed. She loves when he does this—when he domes them into their own little world, where nothing matters but the thoughts pulsing in their temples and the way their breaths curl into one—and lets the tension resting on her shoulders dissipate, because she'd rather be here with him, now, then mired by notions of the past or future.

"So, I'm guessing it'd be a bad idea to suggest we entertain ourselves this summer by robbing a bank or setting fire to the school," he whispers, out of the blue, the flatness of his tone jolting her from her trance.

Her eyes open and she blinks once, twice, before the humor twinkling in the blues of his irises elicits a sharp giggle from her lips.

"You're not funny, Peeta," she laughs, smacking him playfully.

The way he smiles makes his dimples hollow gently into his cheeks, and she _loves_ his dimples, nearly as much as she loves the notion that this criminally charming boy is smiling at _her_.

"I don't have to be funny if I'm going to be a juvenile delinquent," he toys. When she rolls her eyes at him, he shifts his weight over the mattress, the springs underneath them squealing like pigs. "But, in all seriousness… it's our last summer together, Katniss. We might as well do something mildly thrilling."

Although he doesn't speak it, the tacit _while we still can_ reverberates against the corners of her mind until she tastes bile rising in her throat. She's been ruthlessly skirting about this reality all semester, tip-toeing around the subject as if it's a snoring monster she doesn't want to wake. Of course, both she and Peeta—like all their classmates—have resolved what they'll be doing next year, and just thinking about it hurts as much as it would to belly-flop onto a board of thumbtacks.

She and Peeta won't be together in the fall. She'll be working toward a bachelor's degree in Environmental Sciences at the University of Pittsburg (thanks to the FAFSA, Katniss managed to receive almost full tuition in financial aid) while her sunshine boy stays behind in Panem, two hours away. It frustrates her to no end whenever she's reminded of the fact that, for the first time since they were five, they won't have continual access to the other.

She won't be able to flit on over to his room when she can't sleep, and she won't be able to curl up with him beneath his duvet, and she won't be able to fawn over the way his voice and her silence mingle so well.

She used to ask him, week after week, why he wasn't going to school in the fall; his reply was far more elementary than she knows the truth is. She assumes it's because his leg still causes him too much trouble, and it would be a pain to venture so far from home; she assumes it's because his brothers are gone, and his father is a broken engine by himself; she assumes it's because the Mellarks have spent so much on Peeta's treatment that, with student loans and tuition rates at what they are today, he estimates it'd be too much of a burden; she assumes it's because Peeta's afraid. He used to be fearless, before the cancer, but now he's constantly calculating his movements, measuring his time, wondering when—or if—the cancer will return.

Whenever she asked why he wasn't going to school, he would tell her with a sweet smile, "It's not on my bucket list."

After a while, she learned to stop asking.

But the memory triggers something, and she flips onto her side, Peeta's fingertips ghosting from her braid to her bare shoulder.

"You know, we've only done one thing on your bucket list."

He smiles at her, and she thinks to herself, _Good. Now we can avoid the topic of college again._

His palm cups around her arm, tracing absentmindedly up and down from her shoulder to the corner of her elbow, and something inside her stomach twists. But it's not unpleasant. She finds herself biting down on her lip, as she often does nowadays with Peeta; whatever he ignites in her is certainly foreign, and she still has yet to detangle it, but she doesn't hate it. It perplexes her, and she likes it.

"We don't have to do anything else on the list," he tells her, and then adds, "If you don't want. I mean, I'm not exactly pressed for time at the moment."

"So? You've got to have at least _something_ interesting on that list. Skydiving, elephant-riding, parasailing…"

He shakes his head. "The list is incredibly boring. And it has to be done in order, so that makes things a little complicated."

"I can do complicated," she shoots his way, rolling onto her back. He does the same, and when their shoulders brush, she finds herself instinctively lacing her fingers in with his, as if it's something they do every day. Fire shoots up her arm the second their palms align, electrifying her system and smoldering at the juncture of her thighs. Her heart drums violently.

Although he doesn't retract from the contact, she hears a small sound of surprise burst in the back of his throat, and it eases her nerves just enough.

God, she still loves confusing him. Refusing to look at him, she imagines the deer-in-the-headlights look that must be plastered on his features.

"I can also do boring," she adds quickly, ignoring the violent blush that blossoms in her cheeks. "I _love_ boring."

Because boring isn't so boring with Peeta.

She feels his hand pulse on hers. "Well, I _love_ spending time with you, so I guess I could give it a go. The next thing on the list is…" She can sense his frown, and she finally cranes her neck to look at him, her gaze sketching over the crease between his brows and the slight pout over his lips in a way that is so adorable and signature to Peeta. "I think it was to build a tree house, if I remember correctly."

"That could be fun."

"I'm sorry it's not skydiving or elephant-riding or parasailing… I know how into that type of shit you are."

"I think I'll survive." She winks at him, and he chuckles.

His fingers wrap a little more snugly around hers, and it makes her stomach do handsprings. "Good, because I definitely can't do this alone. I know, I know—I should be using my extraordinary masculinity to get the job done, but I don't think that'll be enough."

"And here I thought you were the Incredible Hulk," she teases.

"Yeah, but what they _don't_ tell you is that the Incredible Hulk has a bad knee." He taps her on the nose playfully. "Most of his super-strength, in fact, come from his sidekick. She's short, always wears a braid, scowls about ninety-seven percent of the time. You may know her."

Katniss rolls her eyes. "That's quite a glowing description."

She feels his fingers slide from the gaps between hers, and she feels something in her chest plummet when his heat is momentarily replaced by a gush of cold air, but almost immediately, she realizes he's pulled his hand from hers so he can wind his arms around her body, folding her into his chest like a rag doll.

"Are you sure you're up for it?" he asks her, his voice ruffling in her tresses, the humor fizzling from his tone. "Don't feel like you have to help me with this. I don't want you feeling bad for me."

If there's anything Katniss has learned about their friendship, it's that neither of them deserve pity. Peeta introduced her to Pity's beautiful sister, Compassion, when they were only eleven years old, and since then, she's never wanted to know any other sentiment.

She wants to give Peeta what he wants because she cares for him. Not out of tastelessly-sprouted sympathy.

"I want to," she tells him quietly, unsure of how exactly she should convey her emotions to her best friend; then again, when has she ever been talented with expressing herself well? Even in the company of Peeta Mellark, the boy who knows nearly all her secrets, she still has the emotional grace of a drunken frat boy. She's hopeless when it comes to communicating her feelings.

His fingers braid through her hair, holding her head underneath his chin, and she can't help but think how perfectly they fit together, as if her body was fashioned explicitly to suit his. He's knit around her like a sweater, warming her, and she never wants to shrug herself out of his hold.

"Well, I doubt this will be that great of a commitment anyway," he begins, a bit of a chuckle lingering in his voice. "I mean, how difficult can building a treehouse be?"

* * *

Apparently, extremely difficult.

The easiest part is convincing Mr. Mellark to help fund their project, and the hardest part is literally everything else. It takes very little cajoling to appeal to Peeta's father's sympathetic side, and so by noon the next day, Katniss is walking beside Peeta as he hobbles around the hardware store on his crutches.

They know very little about building a treehouse, and even less about the materials needed to do so, so they enlist the help of one of the store employees—a man by the name of Beetee—and Peeta's brother, Hans, who's home from college for the summer.

Katniss, Peeta, and Hans begin by scouting a tree in the woods arched around the Seam. They find an old oak with a bough wide enough to accommodate the weight, and it's a safe distance from the ground, so they easily settle on this tree. Within the hour they've returned to the hardware store, listening to Beetee prattle on and on about what type of wood would be the sturdiest and which nails they should use and the angles at which they need to hammer the planks together and a myriad of other technical suggestions that breeze right through Katniss's head. It takes several trips between the shop and the woods, and a sizeable chunk of the money Mr. Mellark contributed, before the three musketeers find themselves with the materials they need all rounded up at the base of the oak.

Hans takes to sawing while Peeta works on sanding the strips of wood. Katniss, for the most part, is the designated climber, flickering from the undergrowth to the branch to hammer the planks to the trunk and the branch of the tree. The trio easily finds their rhythm, working dexterously below the canopy of leaves, shards of sunlight puncturing the shade and warming their necks. Katniss can tell Peeta's struggling out here, as the outdoors have never been as relaxing to him as to her, so after about an hour of sawing and sanding and nailing, she offers to grab the boys some lemonade.

She's surprised when Hans offers to come with her.

As they trek through the underbrush—Katniss easily glides along the forest floor while Hans inelegantly stumbles over the uneven terrain, because apparently, heavy-footedness runs in the Mellark family—she can feel the tension between her and the older Mellark, his jaw popped as if he's about to say something. Typically, Katniss thrives in silence, but the anticipation is making her chest burn.

When they reach the edge of the tree line, he plants his feet.

"Katniss—"

She pivots to face him, an eyebrow cocked as she studies him. Elements of Peeta are painted all over his features; she sees him in the floppiness of his hair, although Peeta's is tainted honey-blonde while his brother's is a little duskier, like butterscotch; she sees him in the sharp jawline, in the broad shoulders. She almost sees him in his eyes, although there's something about Peeta's gaze that's one of a kind, because although Hans bears the characteristically blue Mellark eyes, his don't glow the same.

But there's still a friendly, welcoming residue in everything Hans is, and she knows she likes him, even if he's not Peeta's shadow. He sports nearly every stereotypical middle-child trait, with his dignified shyness, his subtlety, his poise. And, like Peeta, Katniss knows Hans is inherently kind. Hence, his willingness to help his little brother with their project.

"Yes?" she replies simply.

He lifts and arm to scratch at the back of his neck, his eyes dutifully avoiding hers. "I—ah, I wanted to thank you."

She feels her brows knit together in confusion. "What?"

"You're good for my brother," he tells her plainly, out of the blue, his cheeks flickering a dark red. "You've always been good for him, really. When Mom left, and when he was sick…" He shakes his head. "I don't think he would've made it through without you. I really don't."

_Well, at least the boy's blunt._ Her heart rate is spiking between her ribs and she hardly understands why; all she knows is that the pulsing is uncomfortable, the burning in her cheeks nearly painful.

She's never been talented with receiving praise.

She expects Hans to start walking then, but he remains frozen in place, and the discomfort tugs at her muscles even more sternly. "I feel awful, really." He surprises her when he chuckles. "I've always known how much he cares about you, and I've never tried to get to know you. But I should. I mean, since you're going to be around a while—"

"—but I'm going to college in the fall," she blurts out, although it sounds petty the moment she leaves it hanging in the air.

Finally, his eyes meet hers, and he offers her a bit of a shy smile. Even though he doesn't possess Peeta's pincushion dimples, there's still something about his grin that reminds her of Peeta, and she feels herself calm slightly at the familiarity. "You're still going to be in his life, though."

This, she doesn't dare dispute.

"Of course."

His smile widens. "Then I think we should be friends. You know, for Peeta's sake."

She offers him a slight grin, melting down her stiff guard into something that can be molded and shaped however she so needs. She'll do anything—climb mountains, traverse rivers, even go as far as wearing a stupid prom dress—for Peeta. Even if that means being civil with his older brother.

But, of all the people in the world Katniss has contended with, Hans is certainly not the worst. If that boy is even one-tenth of what Peeta is, he's already earned her respect.

"Of course," she says again, extending her hand in a silent truce.

* * *

By the end of the second day of construction, she is able to stand with the two Mellark brothers and admire the product of their teamwork. If she would've listened a little more intently to Beetee's suggestions, maybe the roof wouldn't be slightly lopsided, or there wouldn't be slender gaps between some of the planks in the walls, but it'll suffice.

"And that's a wrap, kids," Peeta says, swiping the back of his hand across his forehead coated in a sheen of sweat.

"And it actually looks semi-inhabitable," Katniss laughs.

When she looks to her side, she notices Peeta leaning against the trunk of the tree for balance, smiling at her with a mixture of amusement and some other emotion she doesn't quite understand, but it causes her to blush anyway.

"It could use a little color," he adds airily, his eyes not leaving her.

Hans throws his hands in the air in an expended expression of defeat. "And this is where I stop being of any use to you guys."

"Thank you, Hans," Katniss says almost immediately. "For everything." She awards the middle Mellark brother a shy smile, which he's rightfully earned; he shouldered the most strenuous sector of the labor, since Katniss has always had weak biceps and Peeta had to keep off his knee. In return, Hans tosses an equally coy gin her way. She wonders if he's capable of much else. She's branded him the turtle of the Mellark family, never stretching far from his shell.

She doesn't realize that Peeta is watching this exchange, his eyes narrowing slightly; he steps closer to Katniss automatically, hobbling a bit on his bad leg—the poor kid can't bring his crutches to the woods—before pressing a hand to the small of Katniss's back.

She jumps a little at the contact.

"Katniss, if you don't mind, could we go back to the hardware store?" He points his attention directly to Katniss, blatantly disregarding his older brother's company. "I want to get some paint."

"Yeah, of course." She tries to wipe the confused frown from her features, but there'd been a gravel-darkened resonance in Peeta's tone that seemed so off, and it pegs her even after he's turned away.

They venture back toward the Seam, carrying their tools in their free hands, and when Hans deviates from the pair to head back to the Mellark residence, Peeta hardly offers his brother more than a curt, "Bye." Katniss thinks it's odd—had Hans done something to irritate Peeta? Her mind spins back, assessing his temper over the past few days; today, maybe he'd been a little quieter than usual, and now that she thinks about it, his patience has been growing thin, but… why?

She shakes her head and opts to ignore it for the time being. She's too exhausted to play detective.

* * *

As the sun begins its decent toward the skyline, she lays herself out over the sanded planks that line the floor of the tree house, her eyes raking over the ceiling as Peeta tips it with one final brush stroke. The entire expanse bares a deep sapphire sheen, peppered with silver and gold flecks and swirls of deep violet and indigo. It's a simple portrait, but it's stunning nonetheless.

Peeta has painted them a sky.

(He told her he'd bring those glow-in-the-dark star stickers some other day. She smiled.)

Her skin is sticky from a long day's work, a few stray tendrils of hair that have wriggled their way from her braid plastered to her temples and forehead, and she has splotches of veneer freckling her old t-shirt. She's sure she looks like she's been to hell and back, but as she lays over the smoothed floorboards, she couldn't care less. Especially when Peeta looks away from his artwork to meet her expression, gifting her with one of his charming smiles, all her thoughts nearly evaporate.

"How does it look?" he murmurs, running a hand through his sweaty curls. "Hideous? Revolting? _Uninspiring_?"

"I was going to say 'beautiful,' but whatever." She can't help but grin. Since they cooped themselves up in their newly-assembled safe haven, his mood has recovered immensely.

He chuckles. "A beautiful painting for a beautiful girl."

"I look like fucking Godzilla. Don't even talk to me."

He, of course, doesn't oblige, and she's thankful for that. "You look like you've run the mile, but then again, so do I. That's what happens when you slave away under the sun for a full day." He dips his brush back into the paint canister before lying beside her. "Or under the stars, I guess."

"They really are beautiful stars," she muses quietly, and through her peripheral vision, she catches him tilting his head to study her.

A comfortable silence floats in the air above them, buzzing with the chirps of birds and crickets; he eventually focuses on the ceiling like she is, bowing his elbows out as he rests his palms underneath his head. She loves moments like this with him almost as much as she loves listening to his rambling oratories. He makes both silence and noise into something welcoming.

The sun is sinking low, towed in by the greedy horizon, golden fragments of sunlight bleeding through the cracks in the treehouse, and for a moment, their worlds are glazed in honey-warmth, and she scoots closer to her sunshine boy. They're both sticky and sweaty and freckled with paint, but she doesn't mind, and by the way his arm readily hooks around her shoulder, she knows he doesn't, either.

She's just about to doze off when he rouses her with the rumble of his voice.

"What do you think of Hans?"

She blinks a few times, startled slightly by the question, but her answer isn't difficult to piece together. "I like him. He's really shy, but he's kind, and he really cares about you."

Peeta doesn't respond, and his silence digs into her skin like talons, leaving a throbbing ache in its wake. Since when does the boy have nothing to say?

She steals a glance at him to find his chin set, jaw strained with pressure. His very unlike-Peeta mood has returned full-force, and although she's certain it has something to do with his brother, she has no idea what on this earth could trigger this sort of reaction.

"What do _you_ think of Hans?" she finds herself prodding him back with, her diction sharp.

He frowns. "He's my brother."

That's hardly an answer, and she knows he knows it. Exasperated, she quickly disentangles herself from Peeta's arms, bringing herself to the edge of the treehouse with her knees tucked into her chest. He's jolted upright, too, alarm settling in his features by her sudden absence, and if she wasn't so confused and irritated with him, she'd find his reaction amusing. Flattering, even.

Still, his temperament is grating, and she finds herself hissing, "What's gotten into you?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Spare me the fucking ambiguity, Peeta. Something's bothering you. It's been pissing you off all day—don't think I haven't noticed."

"I'm not _pissed off_," he contests, bringing his palms to his face, his fingers rubbing circles into his temples.

"Then what are you?"

Tension wracks through his body. "I'm just… I don't know. I'm _confused_, I guess."

"Peeta." Her voice is flat. "Stop flirting around whatever it is you're flirting around and just get to the goddamn point."

His hands pull at his face as if his cheeks are made of silly putty, the strain of his fingers turning his cheeks a variety of reds.

"Do you like my brother?"

"Of course," she responds almost immediately, but when his hands fall from his cheeks with a deliberate _slap_ against his knees, and his blue irises have turned into an acrylic mesh of tangled emotions, she realizes that his question had been a little more multifaceted than she'd taken it to be.

"Oh—_oh_," she stammers, her cheeks the color of a traffic light. She nervously swats the hair from her face, her eyes picking a spot on the floorboards and intently focusing on just that, until her stare has grown so intense she's worried it'll blaze a hole straight through the wood.

"I mean, you two have started talking more, and I've noticed that you smile at him a lot, and you blush when—"

"—_Peeta_." She shakes her head fervently, assaulted with a whirlwind of emotions—confusion, surprise, irritation, fascination (the boy's always been perceptive, but never have his premonitions so blatantly misled him)—and left dry regarding any device to sort through them. She can only silence him, allowing the quiet to hopefully lessen the chaos, but it still lingers in her head with no promise of fading.

After a few seconds have passed and her anxiety hasn't even begun to wane, he presses his palms to his eyes again, offering her a soft but implausibly genuine, "I'm sorry."

But why is he sorry?

Katniss untucks her knees from her chest, crawling over to Peeta where she sits on her ankles directly in front of him, her eyes boring into his until their gazes lock.

"I don't… I don't _like_ Hans like that," she tells him honestly, watching as the tumult in his eyes begins to pacify. She doesn't understand why Peeta would think she could "like" his brother beyond simple appreciation; she doubts she's even capable of romantic feelings of any kind. Whatever she feels for Peeta has manifested so fully in her chest that it leaves no room for anything else. She's capable of friendships beyond Peeta, but as made clear by her relationship with Gale, too much of her compassion and attention is directed toward her sunshine boy, prohibiting her from rationing it out elsewhere.

She wishes Peeta knew that. That he was aware of how devoted to him she was.

Peeta lets out a sigh, his gaze falling from hers in some expression of shame. "I really am sorry, Katniss… I just thought there was something going on."

"Why would it bother you?" she quietly inquires, cocking her head slightly.

He looks up to her then, his frown infecting his features with muted pain, and he reaches between them to shyly grasp her fingers in his palms. "I love my brother, I really do. He always looked out for me when my mom was around, and when she was gone and Dad became so quiet, Hans really stuck with me. Whenever he wasn't at school, of course. Really, he's a wonderful guy, but… you deserve better, Katniss. You deserve the entire fucking world handed to you on a silver platter, and it's not that Hans wouldn't be good to you, but he's not enough."

Katniss has always had a bit of a short fuse, and while she could easily take his comments as some form of flattery, she feels rigidity shocking through her system. "Then who _would_ be enough?"

He surprises her with a light chuckle, his hands pulsing against hers. "I don't know. It was meant as a compliment, not a sentence to a life of celibacy."

A thread of a thought weaves though her mind—would _Peeta_ consider himself good enough for her?—but she yanks it out almost immediately, before it can do any real damage. She refuses to even momentarily entertain the thought of her and Peeta being together, because they're _just friends_, and that's how it should stay. There's no way Peeta could ever want her like that.

When she doesn't say anything, he lifts his hand from hers to cup her jaw, bolting their gazes together. Half of her adores the way he touches her, as it's never possessive but affectionate and honest, while the other half of her hates that he toys with her like this. She's eighteen, her body operates on hyperactive hormones, and her best friend is impossibly charismatic.

She remembers how much easier things were when _she_ was the one to always confuse _him_, while nowadays, their roles have practically reversed. It's flustering. Katniss needs to always be in control.

"Let's not argue," he tells her quietly, his voice thicker than syrup, and it wraps around her, roping her closer. "I never meant to upset you."

"I know," she mumbles back, because she does. Peeta would never intentionally hurt her. He'd rather swim through a sea of razorblades than cause her any pain, because Katniss is his world as completely as he is hers. He sometimes tells her that the two of them are soul mates, not necessarily with a romantic implication but in the sense that they're meant to be companions in any paralleled galaxy, over any wrinkle in time, forever, always. It's always been them, and it'll always be them. Even if twenty years down the road, both of them are married and have started families hundreds of miles apart, she'll still be his best friend.

Forever. Always.

* * *

They spend their summer up in their tree-lodged sanctuary. Peeta paints the walls of the treehouse, too, splashing the planks with greens and yellows and periwinkles until they're surrounded by a field of dandelions. The baby blue on the horizon he's illustrated fades darker as it rises until it melts into the night sky overhead, until the sunshine boy and the lunar girl are captured in a world of both night and day.

He brings them blankets and pillows and lines the walls with books and paint, so the two of them curl up in a pool of fabric. She reads, he paints, they share bags of trail mix and pitchers of lemonade, he tells her stories, she laughs, and life is simple.

Neither of them want to face the reality that things will be changing so soon and so dramatically, so they don't. They pretend that their bliss is infinite and that time has no bearing on their little world.

Until the end of June, at least, when Katniss's mother sits her down to say that she and Prim are moving at the end of the summer. They're running away from this suffocating town that reminds her too much of her deceased husband every day, down to Florida, where Mrs. Everdeen's found a job at a hospital and the saline humidity may just clear her head. Because, now that Katniss is going to college, they don't need to stay.

Katniss isn't afraid to yell at her mother.

"What about Prim?" she hisses, the chair squealing against the tile as she pushes it behind her, rising to her feet.

"Prim's young. She will adjust. It won't hurt her like it would've hurt you." Her voice is an octave lower than her daughter's, airy and calm as if Katniss hadn't just screamed in her face.

Every inch of Katniss's skin is tingling with rage, and she digs her fingers into her palms until a sharp pain is shooting through her body, but the anger doesn't abate. "She's _fourteen_, Mom! All her friends are here! Her entire _life_ is here—you can't just rip her away from that!"

"She will adjust," she justifies, her voice even quieter this time.

Katniss's head is pounding, low but deafening like a timpani, and wants to tug at her hair, or scream, or shoot something. She elects to not waste her breath on her mother and grabs her shot gun, bolting out the door and into the woods.

She flicks her mind off, refusing to think about a word her mother had said as she stalks deep into the underbrush. The woods are alive today, birds twittering from every branch. She sees a squirrel here, a rabbit there, and she cocks her gun and fires at a small creature, but she misses.

She never misses.

Her head is pounding, void of all thoughts but teeming with noise and pressure. She's slightly dizzy, but she fights the vertigo and crouches to the ground, gun raised as she lies in wait for the next target.

It's only a few moments before she hears something rustling the leaves behind her; she tilts her head slightly, listening to the uneven gait of the creature. It sounds wounded. Significantly.

And it's venturing straight toward her.

Katniss is quick, intent on catching the animal off guard rather than ambushing it, and her finger hooks around the trigger as she whirls around to train her gun directly on her victim.

She almost has a heart attack when she sees him.

"I don't think you want me on your dinner table tonight," Peeta warns, throwing his hands in the air, his body still in line with Katniss's gun.

Even though she's staring straight at her best friend, her body is frozen in place, and she can't seem to pull her gun away. It's not as if she's even considering shooting the kid, but her mind is pulsing, blank but thunderous, and she can't move.

Peeta's hands lower. "Katniss?"

Almost immediately she drops her gun to the brush tickling her ankles, but her body remains as rigid as a metal pole. He says something to her—she sees his mouth move—but she doesn't hear a sound.

Suddenly, the boy with the golden curls folds the distance between them, his arms wrapping around her just in time for her to crumble, and she drapes herself over his body like she's nothing more than a flimsy strip of fabric. His grip on her only tightens as she begins to empty choked sobs into his neck.

"Katniss, please tell me what's going on."

He doesn't have to do much coaxing. She tells him everything, anyway.

"My mom's leaving. She's taking Prim, and she's leaving."

* * *

He walks her to their treehouse, fighting the pain in his leg the entire way just to help support her weight. After they've climbed the ladder they both collapse onto the blankets, and he wraps himself around her, his palm sweeping in soothing circles over her back.

She manages to choke out her key fears over this arrangement—that she'll hardly see her sister anymore, that she won't have a place in Panem, that she'll hardly get to see Peeta, that she won't even have a home—after which her words melt into harsher sobs, and she cries and cries and cries.

And then she listens, because Peeta begins to fill the void with his redeeming voice, just as he always does.

"Prim loves you, Katniss," he begins quietly, his lips brushing over her eat as he speaks, triggering goose bumps to pop up over her flesh like weeds. "She loves you as much as you love her, so neither of you will let yourselves grow distant. You won't be able to see her every few weeks, but you can write her, you can call her, you can have nightly Skype dates, if that's what it takes. Things may get harder, but you're strong. You'll make it work." His voice laces around her like ribbons of honey, sweet and warm in its intention, and it steadies her breathing a little. "And you're always welcome here. I'm going to need to see you all the time, you know. So you're always welcome to stay at the bakery over weekends or breaks from school. I'll be here. Just because your family is moving… they're not taking your home with them, Katniss. Your home is where you make it." The encouraging peppiness in his timber wavers, superseded by something far more genuine in its sonority as he murmurs, "I can be your home. You've always been mine… the bakery just feels like any other building until you come crawling through my window."

She manages to cough out a curtailed laugh through her now fading sobs.

"Just because your family won't be here, that doesn't mean you're not welcome. I'll even sleep on the floor so you can have my bed if it means you'll come to visit all the time. But come back, please. Don't stay away for too long."

It's the first time either of them have really discussed what will happen in the fall when Katniss goes to UPitt, and she finds that there's something oddly consoling about the exchange. She's been dutifully avoiding the topic of his absence from her life for so long that the entire notion had morphed into a dark beast: immense, consuming, suffocating in its grandeur.

Now, it seems manageable.

It'll be hard. But they'll be okay.

She nuzzles deeper into the crook of his neck, and she feels his lips press gently to the top of her head. It sends shivers tingling down her spine but she tries to ignore it; she'd much rather concern herself with his company rather than with irrelevant thoughts regarding how he feels about her. She decides she'll probably never know exactly what he feels for her, but that's alright. She just needs him and every pleasure that entails, devoid of the complexities.

Peeta continues to murmur consolations to his lunar girl, his fingers toying with her raven braid, his lips brushing over her skin. Although it doesn't happen immediately, he eventually manages to calm her tempest, lulling her into a state of self-possession, where her tsunami become small ripples, where her typhoon fades to a breeze.

She wonders what she'd do without him.

She prays she never has to find out.

* * *

The lunar girl blinks once, the entire month of June shattering into July. She blinks again, and July withers into August. When she blinks a third time, August begins to shed its feathers, and suddenly, time is slipping too far, too fast, the sun setting on what she'd grown to know as normal.

She fears what her new normal will become. The old normal was simple, predictable, even pleasant at times. The old normal was breakfast with Prim, drinking lemonade with Peeta up in their treehouse, going to a movie every so often with Madge or Delly or Annie, scaling the tree on the side of the bakery to twist herself in with Peeta under his duvet.

The new normal may be drafty dorm rooms, lonely café outings, shallow friendships, empty bank accounts. Only Annie will be accompanying Katniss up at UPitt, serving as the single element transferring from the old to the new normal; otherwise, she's leaving everyone behind. Prim, Madge, Delly, Gale, her mother, her teachers, her classmates.

And, of course, Peeta.

When it's her time to embark on whatever this new normal may be, her family's measly bungalow is suddenly reduced to nothing but empty walls and chipped paint, cardboard boxes littering the floor. Even though the Everdeens never had much, Katniss lived her entire life under this roof and she'd be fooling herself if she said she wouldn't miss it. These walls had seen her take her first steps, heard her first words. They'd known her father.

Which is how Mrs. Everdeen is justifying her departure—there's too much of Mr. Everdeen still lingering in this house, in this town—but Katniss thinks her mother is being completely ridiculous. If Katniss were to lose the love of her life, she wouldn't do everything she could to erase his memory. She can't even begin to understand why Mrs. Everdeen would want to forget the man she'd loved more than life itself, the man who was tall and broad-shouldered and courageous and gentle and _good_ and could make the entire world stop its rotation when he sang.

Then again, Katniss knows she's incapable of understanding nearly _anything_ her mother does. It's not that Mrs. Everdeen is cruel, or selfish, even. She's just so wrapped up in her own persisting grief that she simply _forgets_ there's life beyond her pain. That she has daughters who have needs of their own. But how she manages to so devotedly overlook her own daughters' wellbeing is beyond Katniss, and she resents her mother for it. She supposes she always will.

The night before Katniss is set to leave with Annie for the university, she crawls into Peeta's window to find him hunched over his desk, face in his hands. A slightly faded piece of paper rests between his elbows.

"Peeta?"

He starts, his hands jolting to cover the sheet of paper, his face flickering to meet hers. Even in the dark, she can see his irises are red-rimmed, his golden curls tousled.

_Oh, god._

"What—what's wrong?"

He tugs open one of the drawers of his desk, sliding the paper in quickly before wiping his hand under his nose and sniffling. "Nothing. Just… God, there's so much left on my bucket list."

_So that's what'd been on his desk._

"You're never going to let me see it, are you?" she implores softly, taking a step toward him.

"Not as long as I'm alive."

Her heart suffocates. He shouldn't say things like that to her.

He slides back in his chair, standing up as he rubs his eyes. She can't tell if he's been crying or if he's about to, but he's dutifully endeavoring to hide whatever distress he's in. He even goes so far as to force a halfhearted smile, but Katniss can see right through it. She can always see right through him.

Neither of them are particularly gifted when it comes to hiding things from the other.

"Peeta, please tell me what's bothering you." She angles her head up to him as she closes the gap between their shadow-sheathed figures.

He lifts a hand to swipe a few stray strands of hair behind her ear, and she shivers. "There's just a lot going on right now, Katniss. I'll be fine."

"I don't have time to wait for you to get fine on your own. Let me help you. Let me listen." After all, listening to Peeta has always been her forte.

He limps over to the bed, placing himself at the edge of the mattress; his knees are open, and he pulls Katniss between them, his hands bracketing her hips. Her camisole hardly covers her midriff, and while decency has never been an issue with Peeta—they're _just friends_, after all—she finds herself squeaking out a tiny gasp when the warmth of his palms splays out over the skin of her waist. The heat travels directly to the juncture of her thighs, and she tries so hard not to squirm.

Katniss hates her bodily responses to Peeta. Her mind knows better than to let his touch arouse her, but clearly, her systems don't.

She blames it on her hormones. It's nothing else. It can't be.

"I was doing some research earlier," he begins, his voice thin, "and I found some studies showing that with the cancer I had, especially when it doesn't end in surgery, the recurrence rates are…"

He doesn't have to finish. His silence tells all.

"And you've always been here for me, no matter what I was going through, but now—" He lowers his gaze. "I don't know what I'm going to do without you. If something happens, if I get… get _sick_ again… and you're not here—"

"I'd come back," she hisses, her hands moving to cup his jaw and tilt his face back up to hers again. "I'd be at your window in a heartbeat. I'm only two hours away."

Under her palms, she feels his jaw tense. An achingly long silence ensues before he finally lifts his head to look at her once more. And then he speaks again, in a voice so soft she can hardly hear it, but it still wrings her heart all the same.

"I can't sleep without you, Katniss."

Her eyes are stinging. She swallows hard.

"There were nights where you didn't come here—where you didn't crawl through my window to lay with me—and I'd lay awake for hours. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to feel obligated or pressured, but now it's all I can think about. How I'm going to be here, alone, waiting for you, waiting for the cancer to come back, waiting to do the next thing on that stupid bucket list of mine—"

For the first time, she wants to silence him; she can't stomach his dialogue anymore. It claws at her flesh, pulling her in every direction, transmuting her mind into a labyrinth of tangled emotions she can't even pray to navigate, and she needs it to stop.

So she leans in, pressing her lips to his forehead, feeling the heat and the sweet taste of his skin beneath her mouth. His hands tighten their grip on her waist in reaction, and she hears a sharp intake of breath drag through his lips, but he doesn't say anything.

When she pulls back, her mouth is tingling and her head is throbbing and she's not quite sure exactly _why_ she just did it, and maybe she should regret it, but she doesn't. She chooses not to. There's not enough time left for her to wallow in shame.

"Don't wait for me," she whispers through the dark, although every inch of her body prays he does. "You don't have to spend your time worrying that you'll get sick again. You can distract yourself with something—or someone—else. You can find another person to help you knock things off your bucket list, who can help take your mind off the cancer."

"But that someone else isn't my best friend."

Her chest tightens. "You can find a new best friend."

It's what would be best for him. He deserves someone better than a girl two hours down the highway from him, who will prohibit him from knowing anything beyond anticipation. He needs to move on, no matter how painful it'd be for her.

She never deserved him, anyway.

His thumb gently swipes over her skin, leaving a cool tingling sensation in its wake.

"But that new best friend isn't you."

For a split second, she has an overwhelming urge to close the distance between them and just kiss him, _finally_, after so many years. But a moment later the gravity of that thought crashes down on her, and she's absolutely horrified with herself.

_She didn't just think about kissing her best friend again, did she?_

She tries to cover it up with a joke. "Peeta, if you keep talking much longer, I'll drop out of school before I even _begin_ just so I can stay home with you."

"That's the plan," he chuckles, but his eyes are still red, his smile sad.

She shakes her head, leaning down to press her forehead to his. "I'm already missing you, Peeta."

"Me, too."

"I'll come back to you."

"Every day."

"Every month."

"Every week."

She decides it's no good to argue with him, so she wriggles from his grasp and crawls over his bed; he soon joins her, coiling his arms around her after tucking them both in underneath the comforter.

They lay in silence for a while before she murmurs, "You know, you could always enroll at UPitt."

His fingers gently yank her hairband from the end of her braid, carefully towing through the pleats until her hair is loose, webbed over his pillow. "I need to stay home, Katniss."

"Because 'going to college' isn't on your bucket list?" she prods humorlessly, predicting his reasoning before he can suffocate her with it. If she hears that one more time—

"It's because I don't belong there." His tone steals her breath, and she finds herself stilling in his grasp. "Dad needs me here, Katniss. And my treatment was enough of a financial burden on my family. I'm not going to waste more of my dad's money on a degree I'm not going to use."

"You could do such great things." Her voice is small, but sincere.

He doesn't respond. She knows he's aware she's right, but this is Peeta's decision. She must respect it.

After a few moments his grip on her tightens, his nose nuzzling against her temple, and she feels warmth trickle from her core to the tips of her fingers and toes. She curls deeper into his embrace, taking the time to memorize his feel and his scent. It'll be things like this that she'll miss the most when she's away from him.

"Katniss?" His voice splits the quiet after quite a long while.

She tilts her head up slightly. "Yeah?"

"Can I ask you a favor?"

She nods. "Anything." And she means it.

She feels his fingers brushing over her bare shoulders, sweeping down the length of her arm, over the crook of her elbow, before they find hers and lace together with them. She feels his palm pulsing on hers, and it makes her throat thicken.

"Can you sing for me?"

It's practically a godsend when Katniss gifts the world with her song. Even for Peeta, she'll rarely parade her voice, but at the moment, she knows he needs it.

So she parts her lips and sings him the Valley Song.

He often tells her it's the song of hers that ensnared him when they were five. She doesn't remember that day well; she recalls bits and pieces, like that awful faded red gown her mother had dressed her in and the cookie that the chubby five-year-old Peeta had given her. She remembers him calling her pretty.

But she knows he remembers much more than she does because he reminds her of it constantly. How she'd sounded like a bird, how he thought she was cute, and how he needed to be her friend or he was convinced he would die right there in that very classroom, because he'd never heard a song so beautiful.

So she sings it for him now, again. Although her voice has since matured, growing fuller and more steady, it's still as pure, and she feels him trembling against her as he buries his face into her thick curls.

When she's done, she feels him press a soft kiss to the outer shell of her ear, and she fights off a shiver.

She realizes it's late, and that her stay is most likely expended, so she reluctantly begins to pull from his hold, but his arms don't relent.

He whispers to her hair, "Stay with me."

She tells him, "Always."

She doesn't leave his bed that night.

* * *

_A/N: You guys are seriously making me want to change the ending of the story I had in mind, so who knows how this'll turn out._


	4. Chapter 3 - Candlelight

_A/N: For all my fellow IB/AP kids out there who are either anxiously waiting for scores to come out or rejoicing/sobbing over your results… this chapter's for you, kiddos. Stay strong today._

_Quick thanks to __**SFCBruce **__for convincing me that this chapter wasn't a worthless piece of garbage and actually worth posting. That being said, parts of it get a little annoying—same goes for the next chapter—so here's my apology in advance: things __will__ get better, I promise. Just keep chanting "Everlark endgame" to yourself and I swear to all that is holy, we'll get through it._

* * *

**008. Share a Dinner by Candlelight**

"I know I promised I'd take you back to Panem this weekend, but Finnick said he's coming up to Pittsburg, so I don't think I'll be making the trip down."

Katniss worries her lip between her teeth, her chest tightening, but she refuses to throw in a word of protest. Even if it _has_ been five weeks since their last homecoming.

"That's alright," Katniss replies tightly, lowering her eyes to a chip in the wood of their booth. "I have enough studying to do, anyway."

"Hey—" Annie's voice draws Katniss's attention back to her friend; her green eyes are wide, sympathetic, fostering genuine apology. "I know it's been a while. I'm really sorry, Katniss."

She only nods in recognition, unable to muster much else.

Having a hundred miles of highway in between her and her best friend was insufferable at first, and although she's reached the milestone of _not_ needing a pathetic sob-fest in the bathroom before bedtime, her bones still ache whenever she thinks about him. Which is pretty damn often, considering he's everywhere, even in his absence.

Annie immediately endeavors to shift the conversation away from that topic, prattling on about an incident in one of her labs, but Katniss barely makes an authentic attempt to listen. Her fingers toy with the powdery crust of the half-eaten slice of pizza on her plate as her head bobs in slight nods in artificial attention, but her mind has long since wandered a hundred miles away. How is she supposed to tell Peeta that he'll have to wait another week, most likely more? He'd been planning some sort of outing for the two of them. Whatever it he was organizing was supposed to be a surprise, but now it won't even happen, and she feels her stomach wrench with guilt.

Usually, Annie and Katniss's weekly Wednesday pizza nights end with the two of them heading back to Annie's dorm to watch some shitty romantic comedy on Netflix, but tonight, Katniss feigns nausea and slogs across campus alone. She allows the sharp November air, stagnant and raw, to soak into her like a sponge until she's numb, and when she finally reaches her dormitory, she shrugs out of her ice-lined jeans and swaths herself in an old pair of sweatpants and a Captain America shirt that she borrowed from Peeta years ago. It's since lost its smell of him, but it's still _his_, and there's something so oddly comforting in that notion.

She crawls up onto her loft, yanking out her cellphone.

The line rings twice before he picks it up. "I thought you'd never call, Everdeen."

The sound of his voice sends warmth spiking to her fingers and toes, her previously ice-cased body suddenly electric with flame.

"It's been two days," she laughs. "And you're allowed to call first, you know."

"And interrupt your incredibly busy, exciting college life? I wouldn't dream of it."

She sighs, her skull digging deeper into her pillow. She wants to tell him she misses him, but she know he already knows.

"Peeta, I, uh… I have to tell you something."

"Go for it," he shoots back, his jovial tenor shimmering over the line.

God, she _really_ doesn't want to let him down. But she doesn't have a choice.

She gulps. "I know I promised you I'd see you this weekend, but Annie can't give me a ride anymore," she admits quietly, her voice sounding so strangled as it funnels through the line. "It looks like I'm stranded up here."

A long silence rings in her ear before he murmurs an emotionless, "Oh."

"Peeta, I—"

"Don't you dare apologize," he interrupts immediately, sensing the looming apology. "It's not your fault, alright? Things just, uh… don't work out sometimes."

She fists her hand into the fabric of his t-shirt, holding it shakily against her lips as she digests the disappointment lingering in his tone. She takes a deep breath. "I wanted to see you," she concedes, her voice small.

She hears him sigh measuredly, and it makes her chest tighten even more. "I know. I did, too. But you'll come down here eventually, right? I mean, at least you're definitely staying here for winter break…"

"That's over a month away," she whines.

"But you're here for three full weeks. Dad even promised to help me clear out a guest room so you won't have to keep sleeping on the couch while you're here."

"I never even slept on that couch," she shoots back wryly.

Even over the line, she can almost hear him smiling. "Well, what was I supposed to tell him? 'Oh, no, you don't need to prepare a guest room for Katniss, because whenever she comes back from UPitt she ends up sleeping in my room anyway?' He already thinks we're secretly, uh, _copulating_… he doesn't need the extra substantiation."

Katniss cringes at the implication. "Please tell me you're joking."

Peeta's laughter rings in her ear, and it makes her stomach twist in warm knots. She misses his laughter. "Sorry to disappoint. Apparently, Dad asked my _brother_ if he knew anything about our sex life. Wanted to know if we were 'being safe' or whatever."

"That's—that's…" She shudders. "Why would he think that?"

Why would _anyone_ think that? She's been friends with Peeta since the dawn of time, and not once has he even acted remotely sexual around her. Sure, they're unusually touchy and comfortable around the other; she knows hardly anyone can fathom how two friends of the opposite sex could be so close and keep things relatively platonic. But she doesn't expect people to understand.

Still, she thinks it's ridiculous for Peeta's own _father_ to be so deluded.

Peeta chuckles. "Well, I _was_ planning on taking you out to dinner Friday night—"

"As _friends_!" Katniss hisses back, her cheeks coloring with embarrassment. "Can't friends eat food together without any romantic nuances?"

He only laughs harder, the sound rich and full and contagious as it provokes a smile of her own, the humiliation beginning to quell. "God. I miss you, Katniss," he exhales, his admission so reverent that she willingly forgets he hasn't answered her question. "This weekend will be hell."

She wants to remind him that every other day is hell, too, when she has nothing of him but a few of his t-shirts and a beehive full of swarming memories lodged in the front of her head, but she keeps her lips screwed together.

* * *

It's finals week when she meets him. She's sitting in a moderately cozy armchair in the student union, two textbooks splayed out over each knee, a pad of sticky-notes in one hand and a lukewarm coffee in the other.

"You're quite the multi-tasker," a bell-like voice chimes, causing her to flinch.

Her eyes flicker up to see a boy standing before her, his hand wrapped around a Styrofoam cup with a leather-encased tablet tucked in the crook of the other arm.

She frowns. "Excuse me?"

He motions to the crooked textbooks on her lap and her full hands. "Taking finals pretty seriously, I see."

She offers him a tight smile, but doesn't say anything else. He's not the first student to ever awkwardly attempt to make conversation with her, and he surely won't be the last, but she's acquired quite a refined talent for making the assailants feel rather uncomfortable. In the end, they always leave her be, like she wants. She's not here to make friends. On top of Annie and her roommate, an outspoken girl by the name of Johanna, Katniss has a perfectly wonderful friend waiting for her in Panem.

Surprisingly, he doesn't immediately seem deterred by her coolness.

"Mind if I sit here?" His eyes dart to the armchair to her left.

She may be a little hostile in her reservation, but Katniss is rarely aggressive unless provoked, so she concedes, giving the friendly boy a slight nod before returning to her books.

He makes himself comfortable in the seat beside her, powering up his tablet before he annoyingly prods her with even more conversational cues.

"I'm Marvel, by the way."

She doesn't look up from her books. "Katniss."

The weight of his eyes on her feels suffocating, as if it's a thousand pounds, but she still avoids his gaze. "Can I call you Kat?" he prompts sappily.

She grits her teeth. "Katniss is fine."

He doesn't say much else, but when she finds herself in the same armchair the following afternoon, she's surprised to be joined by him a few minutes later.

Finally, her eyes lock with his for more than a split second.

"Are you following me?" she hisses defensively.

He startles her by chuckling. "Not really, no. I just… I enjoyed your company yesterday," he says slowly, his words calculated, but not short in authenticity.

She frowns. "What is there to enjoy about my company? My extremely bubbly personality?"

Her sarcasm doesn't deter him—does _anything_ deter this guy?—and she finds him laughing, his fingers running through his sandy brown hair. "You're funny, Kat."

"It's Katniss."

"Well, _Katniss_, sorry to be blunt, but… would you like to go grab some coffee with me sometime?"

She's thankful there's nothing in her mouth, because she surely would've choked to death on it. She's absolutely floored by his question, reduced to a speechless mess before him; no one has been so forward with her before.

Truth be told, Katniss _likes_ forward, but even so… this is strange.

"Is someone putting you up to this?" she finds herself rumbling, leaning forward in her seat to survey the room. "Shit, it's Johanna, isn't it? Of course it's—"

"Katniss, I'm not messing with you. I'm serious."

She gapes at him for another moment, dumbfounded into becoming a sudden mute, before she cocks a brow.

"You have an awful taste in women, Marvel."

"Maybe I just know a diamond in the rough when I see one." He smiles at her, and she decides that he's not completely unattractive, even if he isn't a male model or Greek God reincarnate. He's tall and thin with a little bit of muscle wiring up his arms; his face is plain—brunette hair, woodsy-brown eyes—but it doesn't make her want to vomit. And he isn't daunted by her hostility, which is a first. Peeta, Gale, and Finnick are the only guys her age who she hasn't made want to run screaming; Gale shared her fire and therefore wasn't afraid of it, Finnick can tolerate just about anyone, and Peeta… well, he's Peeta. That, in and of itself, is explanation enough.

She sighs, knowing she'll regret this the moment it falls from her lips.

"Yeah, sure. Let's get coffee sometime."

* * *

When Annie drops her off at the front door to the bakery, a the handle of her suitcase clutched firmly in her mitten-swathed hand, Katniss stands there for a moment, breathing in the frost-lined breeze of the town. _The air is different here_, she thinks with a slight smile. The coalmines release a warm, crisp, sylvan-type fragrance that coats the atmosphere around it, furnishing Panem with its signature aroma.

It smells like home.

She can tangibly feel her muscles beginning to uncoil as she treads up the concrete walk, her suitcase rolling behind her. Unlike her muscles, however, her stomach is twisted into clusters—she attributes it to the fact that she hasn't seen Peeta in two months. Even though she's called him no less than twice a week since she left for UPitt, returning to him feels like seeing the sun after being in solitary confinement for months.

The moment she pushes through the glass door of the bakery, a tiny bell jingles above the doorway as the plush scent of rising dough fills her lungs, and she sees him. Her sunshine boy. He's standing crutch-free behind the counter, his back to the door, hands expertly folding up a box of pastries.

"Be with you in a moment," he pipes up, and she wants to melt into a puddle of molten iron on the floor, unable to contain her sly grin. His voice is a million times more musical in person than over the phone—another thing for her to check off on the list of things she missed about him.

She takes a deep breath, parting her lips just as he whirls around, his blue eyes as wide as moons as they register her propped in the doorway.

"I'm home, Peeta," she whispers, her eyes stinging.

There isn't even a moment for her to grasp his movement before he's there, _here_, his arms gathering her into his chest, a hand cradling the back of her head and holding it to the crook of his neck, the other finding purchase on her waist. His grasp is suffocating and reviving all the same, his touch electric, and she can feel him trembling against her. She imagines she is, too. But all she can feel is him, his warmth, his honey-cinnamon-nutmeg scent lacing around her like ribbons, and there's nothing else in this world but him.

"I missed you so much," he chokes, his cheek flush against her temple. "You have no idea."

"I think I do, actually," she giggles back, her voice shaky as she holds him to her.

He pulls back, his palm cupping her jaw so he can look at her, the blues of his eyes shimmering, his smile so flawless it could move mountains or cure diseases. "I know I just talked to you on the phone last night, but… I don't know. Something about being able to _feel_ you, finally…" He shakes his head. "God. I can't believe it's only been two months. It feels like I haven't even seen you since the Stone Age."

They exchange another round of hugs before they're interrupted by a third—and soon, fourth—party.

"Well look what the cat dragged in," Mr. Mellark laughs as he jogs in from the kitchen to wrap his arms around both her and his youngest son. It only takes a second before Hans joins the heap as well, the three of them creating a giant knot around Katniss, swallowing her in. She realizes that with every tick of the clock, she begins to feel more and more at home; the Mellarks have become almost a surrogate family for her, stepping in where hers had vanished.

She hasn't felt so welcomed in ages.

Katniss sniffles, coughing to ease the tightness in her throat, but her eyes are prickling. "How's the fort holding up?" She manages to ask once they all release their grips on her.

As Peeta helps her out of her thick winter coat, Mr. Mellark goes to grab her suitcase. "Pretty well, now that we're starting to attract the holiday crowd. Hope you don't mind if we put you to work over the break."

"You guys are giving me housing—I think I owe you a few chores."

"Which we'll start on tomorrow," Peeta interjects. "I believe there's a long-overdue dinner I have to drag you to."

He winks. She blushes.

* * *

She'd envisaged a passably-upscale Italian restaurant when Peeta told her he was planning something, so she grows wary when he advises her to dress warmly. She complies, sheathing herself in jeans and a grey duffle coat that she thinks is god-awful, but Madge—the closest thing to a fashionista that had ever graced her circle of friends—had convinced her to buy last winter. Besides, since classwork-induced stress and homesickness had shaved a few pounds off Katniss that she couldn't afford to lose, she figures an ill-fitting coat served her best.

Peeta leaves her alone at the bakery with his father and brother for about half an hour, returning after the sun has sunken below the snow dunes. His cheeks are rosy, his eyes watery from the cold, but his smile is so toothy and genuine with his blonde locks curling out and around the seam of his knit cap. He motions to the door and says, "After you, my lady," and with a smile, she follows him outside.

She doesn't protest when Peeta takes her hand in his to guide the way. It isn't the first time they've held hands, but as they dance down the street, taking turns leading and lagging as they tug the other through the matted snow, Katniss can feel her heart thumping under all those layers of clothing, able to feel his heat even through their gloves. Tonight, he acts as if it's the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it should be. Truth be told, she'd _like_ it if it were that way, although she refuses to entertain the notion as to why.

Once he pilots them to the skirt of the Seam, she realizes exactly where he's taking her, but she abides by her silence, ready to feign surprise. She knows that'll make him happy.

She isn't prepared, however, to actually _be_ surprised when she reaches their treehouse, crawling up the ladder before him; she feels her lungs jolting to take in a sharp, frozen breath once she sees what Peeta has done to the place. The floorboards are covered in comforters, vanilla-scented candles lining the walls and an old wicker picnic basket propped up in the corner.

She crawls on her hands and knees to the basket, flicking the lid open to see that Peeta has actually made them dinner.

"Peeta, you…" She pivots to see him braced at the top of the ladder, his feet hanging down below the floorboards, eyes expectant. The smile scripted over his pink lips rings with both triumph and humble anticipation for her reaction. She doesn't know what to say.

She coughs.

"No wonder your dad thinks we're fucking."

The moment the words leave her lips, she winces. _Classy, Everdeen._

But Peeta bursts into laughter, deftly swiping the hat from his head as his fingers run through his matted, golden curls. "It's the third thing on my bucket list. _Share a dinner by candlelight._ I know, compared to the last two things, it's pretty anticlimactic and super cheesy, but it's no secret that I'm a huge hopeless romantic, so it shouldn't come as too much of a surprise." The heat under her cheeks surges to a point where she wonders if her face is burning as bright as the candles. "You like vanilla, right?"

She nods.

He crawls past her to rifle through the wicker basket; soon he retrieves two ceramic mugs and a thermos, setting the mugs on the comforter and filling them with the contents of the vessel. "Hot chocolate," he states, slipping the thermos to the side and handing her one of the drinks. "I think we should make a toast."

She wraps her fingers around the handle of her mug. "To what?"

"Well, first of all, to the fact that I didn't actually start a forest fire with the candles, and secondly…" His smile widens, the ginger lighting of the wicker flames flashing over his dimples. "To you coming home, Katniss."

She swallows hard.

"To nonexistent fires, and to homecomings, _and_ to knocking yet another thing off your bucket list," she cheers, lifting her mug in the air. His meets hers with a decisive _clink_, and the two of them settle into the comforters as he begins to unpack the basket.

In conjunction with the hot chocolate, Peeta prepared sandwiches for them—chicken breast and melted provolone with avocado and a splash of several other ingredients she can't name all on toasted ciabatta—and the two of them eat by the candlelight. He tucks her into the plush blankets and scoots in next to her.

He's in the middle of one of his glorious rolling monologues when her phone vibrates in her pocket. She nonchalantly pulls it out, her spine chilling as she reads the name that flickers across the screen. _Marvel._ She hasn't told Peeta about him yet; she rushes to slip her phone back into her pocket before she catches his attention.

She'd done it too quickly, however, too conspicuously, because he pauses in the middle of his sentence, cocking a brow.

"Everything alright?" he prompts slowly, suspiciously.

She bobs her head up and down like a jackrabbit on crack cocaine. "Yeah, uh—yeah, that was just a friend."

_Smooth move._ She wants to smack herself. If she hadn't already sent up any red flags, she sure as hell has done it now.

Peeta can see right through her like she's made of cut-glass, and so clearly, he can tell she's hiding something from him.

"A friend?" His tone is dubious.

"Yeah. From school."

His lips are parted slightly, face slack as he waits for her to continue, but she doesn't. She can feel her face burning as she realizes just how deep this hole is burrowing. She should've just told him right off the bat and let him continue on with his tirade as if nothing was out of the ordinary, but she'd piqued his curiosity by now.

There was no avoiding it anymore.

She sighs in defeat. "His name's Marvel. I met him earlier this week."

Peeta doesn't seem at all surprised, or even remotely angry, although an unreadable emotion flickers across his gaze. He flips over onto his side, his full attention slotted on her. "So, tell me about this Marvel character," he prompts, his tone completely even.

At first, she's a little shocked at his reaction—she'd expected something with a more negative taste than casual indifference—but she immediately realizes she shouldn't have expected anything else. Peeta simply isn't one to grow angry with her, especially not over something as petty as this, and… well, he reacted exactly as a best friend—a _just friends_ best friend—should.

She doesn't understand why she'd anticipated anything different.

She sighs, rolling on her back. "I really don't know much about him. He just started talking to me one day in the Student Union, _completely_ out of the blue. He seems nice, but it's too soon to make an executive decision."

"Think he's interested in you?" Peeta asks, his eyes wandering to a crinkle in the blanket between them.

She bites the inside of her cheek, hesitant to answer, in part because she's afraid Peeta will think she might replace him, and in part because of something much more irrational she doesn't want to think about.

But she's always told Peeta everything. _Everything_. He was the boy she'd run to when she and Gale were hitting the rocks, who would help her psychoanalyze every component of her broken relationship. She's never withheld secrets from him, so why should she start now?

She exhales.

"Yeah. He is. Odd enough, he asked me out to coffee."

Peeta gives her a tight nod, something in his face growing dark, contorted, almost pained.

"Think _you're_ interested in _him_?"

She puffs a giant billow of air through her lips, pushing her hair from her eyes. "God, I don't know. He's really talkative—but so are you, you're just less obnoxious about it—" Her stomach flips when Peeta smiles at this—"and he keeps trying to call me 'Kat,' which annoys the fuck out of me. But he seems like a nice guy, and he's moderately attractive, so… I don't know."

Peeta shifts up on his elbow. "What do you mean, moderately attractive? On a scale from Michael Jackson to David Beckham…"

She laughs. "I don't know, Peeta. He's just… _average_. He's plain. He's nice."

She doesn't know how many times she's used the word "nice" to describe him, but she's about to reach her daily limit.

Flipping back onto her side, she lets out a chopped sigh. "Let's talk about something else," she redirects, pressing her face against the cotton fabric of the comforter below her. "Here you are, making these delicious sandwiches and almost lighting our treehouse on fire for _me_, and we're talking about some dude who's probably named after a comic book publisher."

He smiles, dimples and all, but it doesn't fully reach his eyes.

* * *

She falls into a routine with Peeta so easily, the only grueling component of their schedule being the obscenely early morning. She helps around the bakery into the early afternoon, taking to tasks she used to do back when she worked there in high school. She mans the register, cleans, distracts Peeta, and eats the leftover or defective pastries, so it's safe to say she never runs short of things to do.

Mr. Mellark lets them off at three o'clock, allowing them to spend their afternoons mingling with their high school friends or penning themselves up in Peeta's room or, whenever weather permits, the treehouse. They occupy these hours with hot chocolate, elaborate conversations, and board games. (She almost always beats him in checkers, but she's grown suspicious that he's letting her win, which makes her want to strangle him because she's actually competitive and wants to win fair and square).

They never run short on things to say.

At first, during their intimate afternoons, she refuses to talk about Marvel. She feels like whatever part of her life he occupies—however miniscule that part is—shouldn't mix with Peeta's, for whatever reason. But the boy's persistent, texting her every day, and soon she can't completely disregard his existence around Peeta, so the two circles begin to slowly bleed into the other, and she finds herself injecting a little talk of Marvel into their conversations now and again.

Peeta attentively listens, his courtesy always in full bloom, but she soon notices that whenever she speaks of Marvel he grows much quieter than usual, his adorable dimpled grins trading for sad smiles. She has no idea why Peeta's acting so strange—he never acted like this when she'd blather on about Gale.

She prays Peeta doesn't think he'd ever take the backseat to Marvel. He has a permanent hold of shotgun, regardless of who comes traipsing into her life.

She nearly tells him this four, maybe five times when they're curled together on his bed, but she never marshals the courage to tell him. That she's his. Forever. Always. That even if this Marvel character—who she barely knows in the first place—turns out to be a fire-fighting, kitten-saving, charity-donating heart surgeon, he'll never be half the man Peeta is, because no one is, not to her. He is her sunshine, burning brilliantly in her sky, always leading her through an otherwise hostile oblivion.

But she never tells him this. She doesn't know how.

Be that as it may, he still holds her with a conviction that suggests he knows, that he feels the same way, so she figures that maybe, words aren't necessary.

Every night, once she presumes Mr. Mellark has fallen asleep, she'll creep from her room and tip-toe over to Peeta's, finding him propped up against the headboard as he waits for her. He always waits for her. She'll dive onto the mattress, tugging him with her as she plunges beneath the sheets; the boy will wrap his muscle-corded arms around her wiry body, and she'll settle against him. They talk themselves straight into slumber, and although she never means to stay the night, she always wakes to the divine feel of his fingers detangling her snarled braid as he whispers her into consciousness.

In a whirlwind of snow flurries, Christmas trees, eggnog, fireworks, and college bowl games she doesn't give two shits about, Katniss's three weeks flicker by in three seconds. She's lying with Peeta on top of his duvet, their heads at the foot of the bed with their feet propped up over the dark mahogany frame of the headboard, when he turns to look at her.

"What's your opinion on the prospect of me kidnapping you to keep you in Panem?"

A tight smirk turns up her lips. "I think it would be both the best and worst thing to happen to me," she offers.

A dagger of heat plunges into her core as she feels his fingers trickle in with hers, their hands joining between them. "Tell me how pathetic I sound."

"You don't sound pathetic, Peeta. Just…" She squints, rifling for the right word. "…_lonely_."

He sighs. "I never thought it'd be this way, you know? Where I'd have to watch all my friends filter into the big world out there while I'm stuck here. But I can't complain. I chose this for myself."

"It's not your fault," she concedes lightly, her palm pulsing on his. "While the rest of us were going on college visits and filling out applications, you were going through treatment. Through physical therapy."

"I still don't think I belong in school—as long as I'm healthy, I guess I'm the designated recipient of the bakery whenever Dad's done with it—but it still suffocates me sometimes. Being stuck here, alone… without _you…_"

She tilts her head, her cheek grazing into the plush fabric of the comforter as she presses her forehead to his shoulder.

"But I guess what makes me so pathetic is that, in my own self-pity, I'm tying you down," he continues, his voice low and gravelly. "I'm making you come back again and again when I should let you be with your new friends out at the university—"

Her hand squashes his with the force of a thousand trampling elephants to shut him up. He may be right in his verdict that he's tying her down—she can't deny that half of her mind still lives between these walls, even when she's a hundred miles away—but in no way is he _forcing_ her into a pact she doesn't want as much as him.

"Stop it, Peeta," she commands. "You're my best friend. And all that's left of my home."

"But this shouldn't be your home forever." His voice is strained, and she can tell he doesn't want to say any of this. "There's so much of the world you haven't explored yet, so many people you haven't met, and—do you see how toxic I am to you? I've dragged you into my shit for years now, with the cancer and the recovery and that _stupid_ bucket list, and I can't keep doing it. You need to invest in healthier relationships, with Annie and your roommate, Johanna, and Marvel—"

Electricity torrents through her with a voltage that could annihilate all of Pennsylvania, and she jolts upright, her eyes flashing with anger.

"How dare you," she snarls, each word punctuated with fury.

He sits upright, too, alarm hijacking his features, but his own panic doesn't assuage her rage. "What did I say?"

"_Marvel_?" she hisses. "I met him less than a _month_ ago and you already think he's more valuable than you?"

"You said you were interested in h—"

She refuses to listen to another word from that beautiful mouth of his, throwing herself off the bed and stomping to the door like a petulant toddler. He's behind her in a second, his fingers reaching out to skim over her arm to draw her back, but she bucks him off and whirls around.

"You're wrong, Peeta." Her voice is so low that probably only whales can hear it, but even so, Peeta's eyes widen in response. "About everything."

When she turns around this time, tearing into the hallway, he doesn't follow her.

The sky is a milky grey in the morning, curling with the aftershocks of a violent storm from sometime in the early hours in the morning, and Katniss can't help but wonder if the gods spun this just to mock her. The atmosphere is much like her: calmed, but still cloudy and sunless.

"You look like you haven't slept in weeks," Annie laughs as Katniss hauls herself into the passenger seat of the sedan. "Has Peeta been keeping you up?"

As Annie winks suggestively, Katniss feels blood burning under her cheeks as viciously as the bile burns in her throat.

"No. I just couldn't sleep last night." Quite possibly because she'd ended up in the guest room, writhing between cold-poisoned sheets. It'd been the first night since her arrival that she hadn't slept with Peeta, and on top of the solitude, she had to contend with a billion swarming thoughts of God knows what.

After the initial veil of anger had faded, Katniss began understanding the full extent of her depravity, of her irrationality. Peeta hadn't deserved her wrath—at least, not a rage so potent. He deserved to be _corrected_, reminded that not a single person could be worth even a tenth of what he was to her. But he didn't deserve to be abandoned.

Still, his words replay in her head relentlessly, and they _still_ rub her the wrong way even after Panem disappears in the review mirror, but she can't fathom why that is. Sure, she'd been afraid of Peeta thinking she'd replace him with Marvel since the moment she first told him about her new acquaintance… could that be it?

Still, something prickles in the back of her mind, hissing that there's more. That she'd been angry because this signifies Peeta's acceptance of the fact that she may be romantically interested in someone else.

She doesn't know how this could bother her. Shouldn't she be glad the only prominent man in her life is willing to make way for the prospect of someone else?

She rubs her temples as pavement rolls under their tires, too exhausted to try to untangle what she actually wants from Peeta.

(It couldn't be that she wants him to _want_ to be the only man in her life. Of course not. They're _just friends._)

As of now, all that matters is that she'd left the bakery this morning with a measly farewell, a sloppy hug, and the sour taste of an unsaid apology lingering in the back of her mouth.

* * *

When she returns to campus, the world around her seems so sinister, the clouds made of chalky steel as they wash the city of all its color, turning Pittsburg to greyscale. She notices how black soot beards the old stone of the cathedrals, how the waters are a murky brown, how the hummocks beyond the river spike aggressively into the air.

Pittsburg was beautiful when she left it. She wonders what made it change so much.

Marvel takes her out on their coffee date later that week, introducing her to some mediocre tearoom where he pours so much creamer into his roast that it's arguably not even coffee anymore. They seat themselves at a metal-rimmed table in the center of the lobby as he asks her about her break. She doesn't talk much, but when she does divulge little tidbits of the holiday, she refuses to mention Peeta.

She learns that Marvel is majoring in Business Management and at the university on a baseball scholarship, that he was born and raised in Ohio, that he has two dogs named Simba and Clark. He listens to hardly anything but country, has never read Ernest Hemingway, and loves Pulp Fiction but can't stand anything Harry Potter related.

He doesn't learn much about her, but that's alright. She's not one for baring herself to the world, and certainly not to a boy she mildly likes.

After their coffee date, the first thing she does when she crawls up into her loft is pluck out her cellphone like a feather from a goose, nearly calling Peeta before she remembers he probably doesn't want to talk to her. Her chest heaves and she buries her face in her pillow, craving the opportunity to tell him everything but knowing she fucked up too gravely to earn it.

Besides, Marvel had been the origin of their argument; she hardly thinks this would be a way to make amends.

As the semester kicks up, she consents to a few more coffee dates with Marvel, each outing just as shallow as the last, but she likes it this way. There's only a handful of people who make authenticity seem more attractive than suppression—one of whom is about as emotionally distant from her as the China—and Marvel surely isn't one of them. But he doesn't seem to mind. He's a nice boy with a middle-of-the-bell-curve IQ score who'd rather chat about himself than Katniss, suiting both of them well. He doesn't demand more than she's willing to give.

That is, until February comes rolling in like the night tide; he takes her out for Mexican food and kisses her in the parking lot afterwards. The moment his lips slant against hers, she feels herself shudder as she mentally conceals the acerbic tang of peppers with something more familiar, with the soothing taste of honey and cinnamon and nutmeg. She raises her arms to grasp his shoulders, expecting a much broader breadth than she finds, and when her hands travel to the back of his neck, she's startled when she discovers coarse short hair instead of the soft, curly, golden down she'd been hoping for.

And when she realizes what's happening, what she's doing, she freezes, stumbling away from the kiss.

Marvel's hand juts out to grasp her waist to keep her from falling, a look of confusion smeared over his features. "You okay?"

She nods sharply. "Yeah, I'm fine," she wheezes hastily, still frozen in her crawling skin as she realizes she _isn't_ fine, not at all, because for a moment she'd fooled herself into believing she was kissing her best friend instead of her date.

What the hell is wrong with her?

When she arrives home that night, she's elated to find her dorm room empty so that no one can hear her empty her scream into the padding of her pillow. Her shriek soon turns into sobs, her entire figure convulsing over her mattress as she cries pathetically, the taste of her absent best friend's name lingering in the back of her throat. She takes her phone out to call him and goes so far as to pound out his number out on the keys, but she crumbles before pressing the call button.

She hasn't spoken to him in a month, but now, she needs him more than a seed needs water, more than a fire needs oxygen, more than Tim Burton needs Johnny Depp, more than anything.

She has to hear his voice.

But she doesn't know if he's forgiven her; she's waiting for him to say something, anything, giving her some slim indication that he misses her even half as desperately as she misses him.

But he doesn't call.

* * *

She's not quite sure what Marvel is to her, because she refuses to stamp him with something as ceremonial as her _boyfriend_, but she doesn't have the heart to correct him when he introduces her to his teammates as his girlfriend. If it makes him happy, then so be it. She's not putting out—she still has her virginity safely intact, unenthusiastic with the idea of granting it to the human manifestation of Wonder Bread—so she figures he at least deserves to pick and choose his label for her.

Both Johanna and Annie are less than thrilled with the pairing, clearly vocalizing their opinions that he is to Katniss as margarine is to strawberry jam: nothing is wrong with either of them, but they simply don't align right. Katniss disagrees—although they don't have much in common, they fit well enough. Marvel does all the talking, finds her moodiness more amusing than off-putting, treats her decently and fills her weekends with something to think of besides the boy with the bread back in Panem.

She's hesitant to admit that he's her best distraction from Peeta, but it's blatantly obvious. Johanna accuses her of only keeping him around so long because he provides a perfect diversion from her problems. Although Katniss divulged to neither Annie nor Jo the minutiae of her fallout with Peeta, her two friends are well aware of the present friction, and readily accredit Marvel's growing role in her life to the conflict.

On a Wednesday in early March, Annie finally cracks when Katniss shows up late to their weekly pizza date because of her new beau.

"What do you even _see_ in this guy, anyway?" she sizzles, her voice peppered with exasperation.

Katniss shrugs as she hunches over in the booth. "He's a nice guy."

"That's all you ever _say_ about him, Katniss. That he's 'nice.' I know he's kind to you, but there's so much more to a relationship than that. Does he even know anything about you?"

Her fingers coil around the water glass. "He knows my family lives in Florida. He knows my major, and my favorite color…" She trails off, running out of details to tack on.

Annie rubs her temples, her chestnut bangs falling in her eyes. "He doesn't know about Peeta, does he?"

As always, Katniss is quick to grow defensive. "What am I supposed to tell him? That, once upon a time, I had a best friend who hasn't spoken to me in nearly two months?"

The greens of Annie irises grow fat as her eyes widen in disapproving shock.

"'Once upon a time?' What the hell is wrong with you, Katniss? Peeta's been there for you through thick and thin since you were practically in diapers, and you let one stupid argument be the end-all?"

Katniss lets her head fall, her forehead meeting the table with a loud _thud._ Her voice is muffled as she groans, "You don't even know what I said to him, Annie."

"I don't think it matters what you said to him at this point. All that matters is _you_ don't have the balls to just call him and apologize and, knowing Peeta, he probably still thinks you're pissed and is giving you space. Both of you are approaching this wrong, but I'm especially disappointed in you, Katniss. You're flinging yourself into this trivial relationship to fill the hole that Peeta left there."

Katniss feels her skin tingling with anger as she lifts her head to glare at her friend. "How dare you accuse me of that, Annie? You have no right to judge me."

Annie lets out a longwinded sigh before pushing her hair from her face, the sharpness in her eyes wilting as empathy blooms in its place. "Katniss, I… I just care about you, alright? And Peeta, too. My entire life, I grew up admiring the way you always had each other's backs, and it's so hard to see two of my best friends at a stale mate."

Something inside Katniss's stomach twists painfully, but she doesn't allow her steeled reserve to allay.

After sorting through her jumbled thoughts, Annie finally reaches across the table, resting her tiny palm against the back of Katniss's curled hand.

"I'm taking you to Panem over spring break with me, alright? I'm going to see Finnick anyway, and I'm not going to allow you to stay on campus or wander off to Cancun with Marvel and his buddies or wherever they're flocking to. I'm assuming the Mellarks will take you in for the week, but if you simply _can't_ work things out with Peeta—which I'm sure you can, and don't you dare contradict me—you can always stay at my place, alright? Just give it a shot."

She wants to protest, but despite her small stature and her typically dignified demeanor, Annie has the drive of a ravening lioness, refusing to let go of battles until she's emerged as the victor.

So in the morning, Katniss ventures over to Marvel's dorm. He answers on the second round of knocks.

"Hey, babe," he greets as he pulls the door back, his hair ruffled from sleep, a clear five o'clock shadow splattered over his cheeks and chin.

She plants her feet in the threshold, crossing her arms over her chest in her mighty power stance.

"I'm going home for spring break," she tells him definitively, her voice even.

He steps up to her so their toes align, his arm snaking around her waist. He smells like morning breath and day-old cologne, neither of which is particularly appealing, but she reminds herself she isn't staying long.

"You should come to South Padre with us," he invites.

But she shakes her head, determined. "Thanks, but I need to go back to Panem."

He frowns. "I thought your family lived in Georgia or wherever."

_Florida_, she mentally squawks, but decides it isn't worth correcting.

"I'll just stay with the friend I was with over winter break."

He scratches the back of his head but nods, licking his lips before pressing a short, wet kiss to her forehead. Half of her is relieved he doesn't lobby for more details, but the other half is faintly offended that he hasn't even asked her about her nameless friend. Although she's fond of the agreement they have where he does all the talking and she sits there fiddling with her braid and pretending to be fascinated by what he has to say, she has to wonder if Marvel is even interested in her for anything besides her general appearance and tough disposition.

As she heads back to her dorm, she reminds herself that she shouldn't expect more from a Wonder Bread incarnate, and that she chose to be with him _because_ of these traits, the ones that distract her from her brokenness.

Her fingers ache to call Peeta or text him or _something_ as spring break comes rolling into view, to let him know she's visiting, but she never rallies the courage. So as she's curled up in the passenger seat while Annie speeds down the highway, she can feel her stomach woven into knots.

Because she has never been the expert orator, Katniss finds herself fashioning some elaborate speech in her head. Every run through, her calculated phrases change, and so by the time Annie has parked just outside the front door to the bakery, Katniss's mind is nothing but a strewed puddle of alphabet soup.

She decelerates on her journey down the front walk, fingers brutally crushing the handle of her suitcase as she's assaulted by her glut of thoughts. _You need to apologize, Katniss. But you also need him to know that he has to talk to you. You need him to tell you how he truly feels. But you hurt him, Katniss, and if anyone has the right to be angry, it's him. You should acquiesce. But—_

Her mind is suddenly barren as she stumbles into the lobby, the pair of blue eyes she knows better than a mother knows her child homing in on her. They stand there squared off for years, like two archenemies about to brawl, or like two lovers about to reunite; his face is slack, painted over with an emotion she doesn't know. Astonishment? Anger? Disbelief?

She feels her lips pulling up into a guilty smirk.

"Surprise," she whispers.

Peeta is propped up behind the register, his face blushing a rosy pink as he braces himself against the countertop, blinking a few times in shock.

And then his voice shatters her quiet.

"You haven't talked to me in over two months." His tone is more airy than accusing as he gapes at her from across the lobby.

She feels her cheeks blazing, and she opens her mouth to hurl out her pre-prepared speech, but the lyrics that'd been fluttering through her mind at the speed of hummingbird wings just moments ago are nowhere to be found.

Before she can measure her words, she murmurs, "I miss you, Peeta."

It hardly addresses his previous statement, but it's bona fide in its sincerity, and she can see the way her admission seems to relieve some of the weight on his shoulders.

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes.

"I miss you, too."

She takes a step inward. "I need to apologize," she blurts out.

His eyelids zap open, but before he can respond, another body saunters out of the kitchen, jolting into paralysis at the sight of her.

"You didn't say Katniss was coming," Hans whispers, expression brightening.

"That's because _Katniss_ didn't say she was coming," Peeta retorts, his eyes dedicatedly remaining locked with hers.

But there isn't any malice in his voice, and even a detail so miniscule still soothes her.

* * *

After dropping off her suitcase in the guest room and sitting down with the Mellarks for a "family dinner," she wanders away from the bakery for some fresh air. Really, it's an excuse to tend to the choking vines of her thoughts, because nothing here is as she'd expected, and it makes the acid in her stomach curdle.

Apart from the moment of her arrival, Peeta hasn't looked at her. But he doesn't seem angry, per se; in fact, he hadn't even told his family about their fight, so the Mellarks welcome her in with warm bear hugs and playful jokes.

(Everyone, except for the person from who she wants it most.)

In point of fact, Peeta's indifference and his family's absolution makes her squirm like a marooned worm on a hot stretch of pavement. She doesn't deserve their kindness.

She finds herself in the treehouse just as the sun is beginning to plummet, the sanded floorboards cleared of all evidence of them. The blankets, the books… it's all gone, the only remaining facet being the stars Peeta had painted onto the ceiling. She splays herself out over the planks, her eyes getting lost in the portrait above her.

The last shard of golden light in the darkening sky is bleeding through the walls of the treehouse when her solitude is demolished.

"Care if I join you?"

She startles a little, craning her neck to see Peeta hunched over the top of the ladder. She hadn't heard him coming.

Huh. That's a first.

He climbs up beside her, laying out with a good body-width distance between them. For a moment, she thinks of what she _wouldn't_ give to feel his hand on hers, just once, but then she remembers she doesn't deserve it. She doesn't deserve him.

She never really has.

"You know," he begins softly, resting an arm behind his head, "There must've been over a dozen times when I picked up my phone and actually dialed your number before I reminded myself you were angry with me."

Her entire body glows with latent heat, and she feels her chest tighten.

"I wasn't mad at you, Peeta."

Something resembling a choked cough bursts in the back of his throat. "Then what happened the night before you left?"

"An overreaction," she mutters crossly.

He surprises her by actually releasing a short laugh. "And here I was, thinking you hated me for these past two months."

"I could never hate you." Her voice is thick as molasses; she turns onto her side to look at him, her eyes memorizing him all over again as if it's been years since she last saw him. His curls are a bit longer, less bleached than they are during summertime, his shoulders broad and his jaw chiseled of stone as he clenches and unclenches his teeth.

He turns to meet her stare, the last inkling of sunlight refracting in the blues of his eyes, turning them to pools of stained glass. "Then why didn't you call?"

"You have no idea how much I wanted to, Peeta. Every day."

"And you have no idea how much _I_ wanted to call _you_."

"You should've."

"_You_ should've."

If it didn't feel like someone had just poured acid over her corneas, and her throat wasn't so thick, she'd crack a smile at the exchange.

His eyes meld into hers, a soft grin touching his lips. "I don't know if you've noticed this, Katniss, but we're not very good at fighting."

"I beg to differ. I think _I'm_ a champion combatant."

"I won't argue with that," he chuckles.

"_Exactly_." Her eyes rediscover the ceiling. "You never argue, Peeta. You never stand up for yourself."

"That's why we get along so well, Katniss."

And he's right, he's _always_ right, but for one goddamn moment she wants something more of him. She doesn't know why, but it's what she's been craving for months.

A charged silence electrifies the atmosphere between them before she takes in a long drag of air. "You want to know why I flipped shit the night before I left?"

He's silent; she takes it as affirmation.

Her fingers curl into fists at her sides, knuckles tensing as she exhales.

"It's because you don't fight, Peeta. At all." And then her teeth clench. "You didn't fight for me."

The air between them seems to weigh a thousand pounds as they both let that soak through their pores. The truth never made total sense to her until it's hanging out there, all on the line: She wanted Peeta to fight for the pedestal she'd given him, but he was relinquishing it. To Marvel, of all people. Another man.

But Peeta is her everything. And she wants him to _want_ to be her everything.

After an era of quiet, he finally stirs beside her.

"I didn't know that's what you wanted," he murmurs as soft as a dove call, his voice almost pleading, as if _he's_ the one who should be apologizing.

"Peeta, you—you're my best friend. You have been forever, and I don't want that—or _anything_—to change. Please know that."

"I do, I just… I want you to be happy."

"I _am_ happy," she spits back, sitting upright, her fists rubbing her tired eyes. "No, this long distance friendship hasn't been easy on either of us, but it's worth it, Peeta! Don't you dare tell me these past two months, when we didn't speak _at all,_ were better than before."

He sits upright, too, his eyes drilling into hers. "I'm not going to argue with you, Katniss. I've been to hell and back since you left."

"And so have I. Do you know how many times I sat there, screaming into my pillow, wanting to tell you everything that was going on? But you weren't there, Peeta. I _needed_ you there. I needed you to want to be there. I n—I need _you_, Peeta."

And there it is, the entire concept that rests in the core of her insecurities: Her fear that her and Peeta's unhealthy relationship is lopsided.

He doesn't say anything back, his jaw popped open, tight in some expression of pain as his eyebrows tweak together. But now that she's begun, now that she's finally cracked the cap on her silence, the words she's been holding back for years suddenly come surging forward in a flood of electricity.

"I haven't been myself this semester, and it's because I have never felt so alone. You remind me of who I _am_, and w-without that, I... I know that's pathetic, and stupid, but I can't do this on my own. I tried so hard to—to fill up that emptiness, that sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, but it only got worse and worse, and if you would've called, or if _I_ would've called—" Tears are welling in her eyes, and she doesn't know why she's falling apart so suddenly, but it's too late to stop. "I—do you know what I did, Peeta? The first time Marvel kissed me, I… I fucking imagined that it was you. _You._ And I didn't sleep at all that night because I needed to talk to you, and figure out what was happening to me, but I _couldn't_, and, and—"

She can't hold her own ruin at bay anymore, and so she collapses against her knees, curling up into a mess of sobs, so humiliated that her entire body is numb. Rarely does Katniss ever say so much, but in this moment, she needed to. She'd been bottling herself up for two whole months now, unable to address her own depravity, but now…

After a few moments of silence, when she assumes Peeta is slowly registering everything she just vomited out, she hears him inhale.

"And you're still with him?"

Her head lifts slowly, her entire body trembling; she feels anger beginning to smolder in her chest. _Had he not heard anything else she'd said?_

But when her gaze collides with his, those pools of blue are so still, so calm and steady, that her fury begins to quell. "Y-yes?"

Suddenly, his arms are coiling around her, fingers splaying over her spine. He tugs her forward, his grip gentle even in its raw intention; he pulls her over his legs, and she stumbles a bit before settling her knees on either side of his hips, her head just above his.

"Peeta, w-what… what are you doing?"

Before she can breathe, or even register the silkiness of his touch as his palms skim up her back, shoulders, neck, to cradle her face, his nose is grazing hers, his eyes wide and filled with a million emotions she can't even begin to decode.

His responding whisper is so soft, so melodious that it's whisked away with the breeze wafting around their silhouettes.

"I'm fighting for you, Katniss Everdeen."

And then his lips slant under hers, his hands securing her face to his as he kisses her with a cocktail of both tenderness and determination meshed into near-perfect equilibrium. Her own mouth is slack for a second in shock, but then the velvet taste of sugar and something so uniquely _Peeta_ swells around her tongue, and her eyes flutter closed.


	5. Chapter 4 - Cupcakes

_A/N: This chapter involves a lot of wading through Katniss's oblivious ignorance, so I'm sorry. (The end of the chapter's good, though. I promise.) Remember, Everlark endgame, and in the meantime... just keep swimming._

* * *

**007. Have a Cupcake War**

As Katniss curls up underneath her brittle dormitory sheets for the first time in a week, she tries to wash the slate of her mind clean like a whiteboard.

They agreed to pretend that nothing happened.

It was for the best—which was something they're both acutely aware of—that they continue on their joint path as _just friends_, just as they always had before. _People kiss all the time_, she told him a few days prior to her departure, _and it doesn't have to mean a thing._

Still, she never could've predicted that "for the best" would leave a throbbing hole in the bottom of her stomach, like someone had taken a branding iron and cauterized the open wound his lips had left along the seams of her soul. It'd left a scar.

When Johanna comes home much later that night, her dark hair is matted flat across her temples instead of pricked in spikes like usual, plum-tainted rings circling under her lids.

"You look like you've had one hell of a week," Katniss mumbles to the fabric of her pillow, her voice so low and muffled it sounds like it's been shoved through a sock.

Johanna just chuckles darkly. "Hell is the _perfect_ descriptor." She flops on top of her own mattress, some inhuman groan-like sound resonating from her flattened body. "What about your break? Any partying? Alcohol poisoning? Unplanned pregnancies?"

_No_, Katniss thinks to herself, _but my best friend since pre-K kissed me—and I kissed him back—and somehow we mutually decided to act like it never happened._

When he kissed her, she finally understood what all those shitty coming-of-age novels and sappy love songs were burbling about, because she'd seen colors she didn't know existed, her body wracked with tingles. She'd never felt so assaulted, so _liberated_ in her entire existence, infected with some poison that would surely kill her off but she kept injecting into her systems over and over again. His mouth filled her up with poems, his tongue painting landscapes across her bottom lip like she was an empty canvas. He'd redefined kissing. He'd redefined _her_.

And then, as if the gods had administered an electrical shock to both of their heated, tangling bodies, they suddenly lurched backward perfectly in sync, her hands flying to cover her swollen lips.

"Oh my god—" she gasped.

"I'm so sorry—" he panted.

They didn't say much else; he let her scramble ahead of him out of the treehouse, her feet carrying her with lightning speed until she was back at the bakery, back in the cool sheets of the guest bedroom, hiding like a whimpering baby underneath the comforter. She didn't know exactly when Peeta came back, but it was past midnight when she heard a soft rapping on her door, and when she stumbled across the floorboards to answer it, she found him standing before her with disheveled curls and gentle eyes.

"How many Fruit Roll-Ups would I have to buy you to convince you to come sleep in my bed tonight?"

She crossed her arms, desperately trying to conceal the violent flipping in her belly with a completely stony gaze. "Three, maybe four."

"How many more would it take for you to forgive me?"

All she could think was, _there's nothing to forgive._ If anything, _she_ should be the one levelled from guilt. She'd been the one to _ask_ him to fight for her, and she'd been the one to kiss him back, and wrap those silken golden curls around her fingers; she'd been the one to practically achieve _enlightenment_ with the taste of his kiss.

But if this was going to mend their suddenly shattered conception of friendship, by pretending all their woes could be reimbursed by candy, then so be it.

"Add an extra two, and you've got yourself a deal."

So now, as she sits coiled like copper wire on her mattress, she doesn't know how to respond to Johanna's question. She eventually settles on a halfhearted "It was fine," although _fine_ is the polar opposite of what it was. Her break was beautiful, and revolutionary, but heart-breaking and confusing and complex, all because she and Peeta had crossed a line. So what if they'd agreed to back-track and pretend they'd never overstepped their boundaries—all that matters is they _had_, and Katniss had tasted pure sunshine when all she'd known before was winter rain.

But their agreement to remain _just friends_ was mutual. _Is_ mutual. She was the one to suggest it, actually, when they curled up together in his bed the night he kissed her. Neither Katniss nor Peeta are familiar with model relationships—Katniss's father died too young, Peeta's parents divorced, Katniss's relationship with Gale was volcanic and her relationship with Marvel is dull—and so to say that Katniss doesn't have much faith in love would be a drastic understatement. It's not that she believes it doesn't exist; she simply accepts it as something more toxic than liberating, something that brings people together only so it can shred them to tiny, frayed tabs of paper, warping them beyond recognition.

Moreover, Katniss has an awful tendency for _fucking up everything she touches_, and she wouldn't dare risk ruining the good thing she has with Peeta just because she can't funnel her hormones into something more productive. She doesn't _need_ Peeta as a boyfriend. She _needs_ him as her best friend, as her constant, as her teddy bear to hug when the air gets too heavy, as her sunshine when the clouds crush the earth below.

For this reason, she refuses to entertain the idea of whether or not she actually _wants_ something more of him. It's a silly, useless thought. She can't handle anything greater, so whether she wants to or not is irrelevant.

Besides, Peeta could never want her like that. She's his moon, his little shard of luminescence when the world is dark, his anchor when his feet are wobbly, his company when everyone around him flees.

She knows he'll never love her in that way.

He deserves someone better at any rate.

The night she comes back to campus, Marvel swings by her dorm room and offers to take her to grab some Thai food. With knots yanking at her stomach lining, she concedes, shooting Peeta a quick text message.

_**Katniss:**__ Marvel's taking me to dinner._

After they decided to keep things platonic, Katniss and Peeta never discussed where this left her with Marvel. Did the fact that they more or less "took back" the kiss mean she should keep nursing her fling with the Wonder Bread epithet? Does she even _want_ to be with him?

Her dinner date with Marvel is just coming to a close when she finally feels the familiar vibrating in her pocket. She doesn't know why it took him so long to respond.

_**Peeta:**__ Oh. That's fun_

She frowns at the irradiated screen. Peeta has always been one of those obnoxious texters who sends three-page messages in bulk, so a measly three-word reply leaves her mouth dry, sending her fingers dexterously flying across the keys.

_**Katniss:**__ …are you okay with this?_

His response is instant.

_**Peeta:**__ Well since we're just friends, I don't see why I shouldn't be_

Her lungs contract—Peeta isn't one for brusqueness, so this is new—and the words leave a sour taste fizzling on her tongue. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

She doesn't know how to respond, so she doesn't.

She leaves a safe few inches between her and Marvel as they meander back through campus, the once-comfortable silence between them suddenly suffocating. He stops her by a park bench saturated in waxen-orange lamplight, prompting her to sit with him.

He ruffles his hair. "Kat, are you… is something wrong?"

If she could tell him the truth, she would—that _everything_ is wrong, that her world did a violent one-eighty over break and she doesn't know where she stands with anything anymore—but she doesn't want to tell Marvel these things. She doesn't want to tell Marvel _anything._

He still doesn't even know about Peeta.

"I'm alright," she lies, her eyes focused on the floodlit pavement. "Just had a long break, you know?"

He pretends he understands, his palm resting empathetically on her knee. "I mean, you've never talked much, but tonight, I feel like… I don't know, it's—it's almost like you're not even here."

Her eyes flit up to his, searching for something in those flat pools of brown, but whatever it is, she doesn't find it. It's now that she realizes he's right; she's _not_ here at all, not mentally.

She wants to anchor herself back into her body, however, so without thinking it through she leans in, pressing her lips to Marvel's. But his chapped lips feel like putty, not holding their own weight, not sending any electric impulses down to her belly, to the juncture of her thighs where she'd felt something the last time she kissed someone, _her_ someone; it's almost as if his kiss is on mute. So contained in the background, leaving her empty and cold and uninterested.

He's still Wonder Bread. She hadn't minded Wonder Bread before.

But now, kissing him feels like waiting for paint to dry.

* * *

It's safe to say Annie and Johanna are just short of throwing an entire parade to celebrate Katniss's newfound singlehood.

The three of them are perched on the sofa at the student union, each clutching some variation of iced tea when Katniss quietly makes the announcement, and within a moment her two friends are fawning over her like she just told them she rescued a small child from a burning building or installed clean drinking water worldwide.

When they ask her _why_, she doesn't know exactly what to tell them, so she dishes out a vague answer. "He's a nice guy, but we were both wasting each other's time."

It's not exactly a lie.

"And I'm sure this has nothing to do with you spending your break with that baker boy back home," Johanna prods, her tongue curling evocatively around the top of her straw.

Katniss can feel herself blushing and she immediately makes an effort to pass it off as anger. It's better than the alternative, at least. She doesn't want to have to explain the truth as to why she's so cherry-cheeked. "This has nothing to do with him. This was _my_ decision."

Annie amusedly lifts her brows. "Uh-huh."

"What, do you really think my entire universe revolves around Peeta?"

"I think _both_ of you are in an entirely different universe of your own," Annie jokes, but then she leans in a little closer, those emerald-highlighted irises growing more sympathetic. "Look. I'm not saying you did it consciously, but there's no way that you ending things with Marvel had nothing to do with him."

Katniss is well aware that breaking up with him was _directly caused_ by Peeta—he had finally fought for her, he'd done what she asked, and he'd earned his role as the alpha-male in her life, leaving no room for frivolous escapades with Marvel—but she's not about to admit it to her friends. So she only sighs, rubbing her temples in dampened frustration.

"I just don't think I'm capable of dealing with romance healthily," she mumbles, not even beginning to realize the truth to her own words.

* * *

When she calls Peeta that night, he answers on the second ring. She's texted him a handful of times since she came back to campus, but she hasn't heard his voice since she left; his honey-silk cadence is one of the only things that can calm her completely, and after the day she's had, she needs it.

"Hello?"

She audibly sighs at the sound of his voice. It's like a symphony.

"Is this an okay time to call? I think I'm going to explode if I go another day without talking to you," she admits. He's the only person she could ever be this honest with—this _vulnerable_ around—and she knows it.

She hears him laugh slightly on the other end of the line. "Now's a great time. Just let me wash up first—I just finished painting, and I really don't want to get acrylics all over my phone." She waits patiently as the line turns to static, curling up underneath the blankets of her lofted bed. It doesn't take long before he returns, his breath swirling over the phone. "I'm back. What's up, buttercup?"

She blushes slightly, then clears her throat. "I broke up with Marvel."

The moment the admission leaves her lips, a swell of cool air fills her lungs, and it feels wonderful. Telling Annie and Johanna about the breakup had seemed like a chore, but this… for some odd reason, it feels right.

"Wow. My kissing skills were that supreme, huh?" he toys, and she's thankful he's joking with her. That's what she needs from him. After her conversation with Annie and Johanna, this is rejuvenating.

She rolls her eyes even though he can't see it. "Don't flatter yourself, Mellark."

The sound of rustling sheets echoes from his side of the phone as he shifts, probably into his bed, and he lets out a long sigh. "Mind telling me why you did it?"

She sifts through the details in her brain like she's digging for gold in a tray of dirt, deciding what to give him and what to filter out. There are certain things he can't know.

"It just wasn't going to work," she eventually replies, deciding that this may be the best course to take. That way, she doesn't have to lie to him; she just gets to carefully select what he knows. "I couldn't tell him anything about me. Not like I do with you." _Not even close._ "And I know that you and I are _just friends_, but I feel a thousand times more comfortable around you than I did around him, and I just… I don't know. I think you've cursed me, Peeta. I don't have any extra room for another guy in my life."

"Now I feel guilty," he says, but a slight chuckle follows anyway.

"Don't. That may change eventually. But for now… I _like_ what we have, Peeta."

"I do, too," he replies quietly, but there's a twinge of something in his voice, almost… wistfulness? But for what? "Just… if you meet Prince Charming, don't turn him down on my account, alright? You deserve to be happy."

And here they are again, full circle: thinking so highly of the other, thinking they don't deserve each other's company. Katniss is not the most humble of people, but when it comes to Peeta, she's impossibly modest, just as Peeta is around her.

He will never see how great of value he is to her.

And she will never understand how much he cares for her in return.

* * *

When finals week comes vaulting around the corner like a rabid mutt, Katniss finds herself confined to her room, her nose deep in the binding of her books, vowing to pretend the world around her doesn't exist. She assures herself that she can do it, though, that she can make it through the week without flinging herself from her lofted bed, because at the end of the tunnel she's got her ray of sunshine waiting for her.

She misses him like drought-ridden land misses rainfall, like dieters miss candy bars; she craves him, craves his contact, because she once read somewhere that a person needs seven healthy touches a day, and she averages about one-and-a-half when he's not around.

Besides, she sleeps so much better in his arms. She always has.

When she's driving back toward Panem with Annie behind the steering wheel, she half-listens as her friend chatters on about Finnick—about how she's staying with him this summer, how they'll pretty much be attached at the hip for the next few months, and suddenly Katniss realizes that what Annie has with Finnick is nearly identical to what _she_ has with _Peeta,_ only Peeta isn't in love with her, and they actually use his bed for sleeping rather than whatever Annie and Finnick do.

She thumps her head against the dashboard and elects not to think about it any longer.

When Annie drops her off at the bakery, there's nothing beyond her own desire for self-preservation keeping her from sprinting straight into the lobby, so it doesn't take long before she bursts through the front door. She sees a familiar dash of blonde hair as a Mellark shifts behind the register, chatting with a young couple buying a few loaves of bread, but his curls are darker and his eyes don't glow the same.

Still, after the couple passes her on their way out, she turns to him and smiles. "Hey, Hans."

He rounds the front counter to bring her into a tight hug. "Congrats on making it through your first year in the big world, lil' sister!"

"And I managed to do it without tugging all my hair from the roots," she laughs as she pulls back, her smile genuine. There's just something about the Mellark men that put her at ease, and although she remembers how at this time last year, Hans was barely more than a stranger to her, she's grateful things are different now. With her own family a thousand miles down south, having a proxy household here keeps her grounded and reminds her that maybe the world isn't as cruel as it's cracked up to be.

Her eyes scan the bakery, pinning on the door to the kitchen; she nearly expects Peeta to come bursting into the lobby. But he doesn't.

She cocks a brow. "Uh… where's Peeta?"

"Oh! He, um… he wasn't feeling too well this morning..." He scratches the back of his neck. "He's probably puddled up on the floor of the bathroom upstairs. He's been like that all day."

Katniss's stomach churns, but she only nods and thanks Hans, dragging her suitcase along as she lets herself upstairs to the second floor of the bakery. After quickly dumping her stuff in the guest room—the room that smells faintly of mothballs and licorice, the room she's spent obscenely low amounts of time in considering how often she's stayed here—she hurries down to the bathroom at the end of the hall. The door is screwed shut, but the yellow-tainted stripe of light at the bottom of the door suggests he's in there, so she quietly knocks three times.

"Go away," the voice on the other side of the wooden slab moans.

She leans her cheek against the door. "You owe me five Fruit Roll-Ups, Mellark. I'm here to collect your dues."

There's a slight shuffling sound, and a cough, before the knob twists and the door flies open. Before her stands an exhausted, threadbare, I've-been-shoved-through-a-meat-grinder-twice-over version of her best friend. But he still manages a smile, and it makes her stomach transform into a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

She wants to hug him, to wrap herself around him like taffy until her skin is fused with his, but his complexion is bone-white with a slight green tint and she's momentarily afraid he's about to vomit all over her. So she holds her ground.

"You look like shit, Peeta," she says quietly, her eyes scanning him over and over again.

He runs his fingers though his disheveled curls. "Aw, you're too kind."

She defies her decision to keep a few feet between them and steps closer, her palm finding his flushing cheek, clammy to the touch.

"How do you _feel_?" She flinches once the words fall from her lips. _Fuck, that's a stupid question._

"Like a herd of drunken elephants did the tango on my stomach."

When he leans his forehead on the framework of the door, his eyes squeezing as he swallows, she suddenly remembers the last time she saw him this sick. At the realization, her stomach flips and she, too, feels like she's about to vomit.

"Oh god, Peeta—"

His eyelids shoot open as he looks at her in alarm. "What?"

_No. This can't be happening._ "You don't—you don't have—"

She can't say it out of fear that the word itself will burn a hole straight through her tongue. _Recurrence. Cancer_. The vocabulary alone is toxic enough.

He frowns, obviously not on the same page as her. "Katniss, I—I don't understand…"

She feels dizzy. Oh, god. She can't do this again. She can't watch him go through this again. No. _No._

"Please tell me that—that you don't have… that it isn't back—"

His eyes widen even further, inflating to the size of moons as he waves his hands in front of him. "God, no! Katniss, it's just a stupid stomach virus. Dad had it last week."

She feels her chest deflate, all the heat that'd been pooling in her cheeks suddenly releasing into the air between them. Before she can think over what she's doing, she's closing the space between them, her head burrowing into the warm curve of his neck. He's sweaty, but the sensation that relief leaves behind as it courses through her veins numbs her to everything else, because she'd completely overreacted; he's _okay_, he's fine, he's alive.

"Katniss, if the c—if _it_ were to come back, I'd tell you right away, alright?"

She nods, and she believes him. She should know better, anyway. Peeta has _never_ tried to keep things from her. He'd rather douse himself in kerosene and light a match than keep her in the dark on something so important.

They eventually have to tear themselves away from each other when Peeta suddenly coughs, running to the toilet to shove his head into the bowl. She crouches beside him—she's always been anything but squeamish, convinced her stomach is lined with steel—and lets her palm lightly graze over the planes of his back until the quivering in his muscles lessens.

If she's counting, they're at two healthy touches so far. Only five more to go until he's (theoretically) good as new.

* * *

While she's waiting for Peeta to recover from his last viral encounter, Katniss grudgingly agrees to tag along with Madge as she goes shopping.

"Don't get me wrong—I love being at UPenn, and Philadelphia is incredible, right?—but it sucks being so far away from home all the time. I mean, you and Annie can make the trip down to Panem in roughly two hours, which is doable almost any weekend. But it takes me at least four, and that's if I'm ignoring every damn speed limit sign I come across." Katniss remains mute as Madge continues to vigorously dig through the pile of jean shorts. "And Gale, he's—well, _you_ know how Gale is, of course—he's really intense, which is great when we're together, but he _sucks_ with texting back and he gets angry about a bunch of stuff I don't have control over, and… I don't know, Katniss. I love him, but I'm surprised we survived the year."

Katniss merely nods in return, unsure of exactly how to respond. But when her silence extends a little longer than it should, Madge suddenly turns to her, forcing a sympathetic smile over her soft features. "I'm sorry, all we've talked about so far is me. How've you been handling the distance from home?"

Katniss tugs at the end of her braid, pulling it over her shoulder. "It's been, uh… rough, I guess. I Skype with Prim every week, but I've only talked to mom a handful of times."

"That must be tough." And then Madge smiles. "How about with Peeta?"

_What is it with everyone's obsession with her and Peeta's friendship?_

She forces air through clenched teeth, reasoning that there's no point in evading the topic. Madge will expertly wheedle it out of her eventually. "It hasn't been easy," she admits, her gaze avoiding Madge's pointedly. "I thought it'd just be a lot of restless nights, you know? Where we'd be sad most of the time and I'd miss having his company. But, uh… we've argued a lot. More than we really ever have."

Madge's brow dips in a frown. "Over what?"

She only shrugs, deciding there are some things she should keep to herself. "Pretty trivial stuff, mostly," Katniss grunts, but Madge's attention doesn't let up, and eventually, she sighs in submission. "I guess I just don't know where I stand with him. And I don't think he knows where he stands with me. It's making us say and do a lot of stupid things." _Like get into pointless relationships with oddly-named college boys. Or kiss each other._

She expects her ambiguity to cause Madge to retreat, but she remains surprisingly focused, her light eyes growing even more sympathetic.

"That doesn't surprise me. You're both dealing with a lot of change—you're immersed in a new culture, and Peeta is suddenly without all his friends, and without _you_... I think you're both just a little lost, trying to navigate through these situations without each other, and it's taking a toll on both of you."

Katniss wants to contest, wants to grow defensive, wants to tell Madge she's _wrong_, but she can't. Katniss has never dealt well with adjustment—with her father's death, with her family moving south—but she always had Peeta for the worst of it, and Peeta always had her when he was going through periods of change as well. Now they're facing brand new worlds, but they don't have their partners attached to their hips.

Madge is right. Katniss has never felt as lost as she has this past year.

She pinches the bridge of her nose, eyelids clenched shut. "I just don't want our friendship to change, you know?"

"It may have to," she replies gently, as if she's speaking to a child who dropped their lollipop on the ground. "Both of you aren't who you were a year ago, and the conditions of your friendship aren't the same at all. And, Katniss… you know, you two may _want_ different things than what you did last summer."

Katniss glowers at her. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Has it ever occurred to you that you may want to be _more_ than friends with Peeta?"

Her mouth tastes sour and dry like it's been stuffed with old cotton balls. She pops her jaw to say something, to yell at Madge, to spurt out a bunch of loaded accusations, but she doesn't know how to say any of it.

She doesn't know _what_ to say.

Truth be told, she hasn't thought about it. She hasn't _allowed_ herself to think about it. After he kissed her, she considered what would happen if they'd changed the status of their relationship, but she knew things would grow far too complicated, so she simply avoided it, not giving herself a moment to even consider whether or not she could_ want_ to be with Peeta like that.

"I'm not trying to upset you," Madge says softly after a moment, "but it makes sense, you know. It explains why you've been fighting so much over what you mean to each other. Maybe Peeta wants—"

Now _this_ is where she draws the line. "Stop," she hisses. "Peeta would _never_ want that from me, okay?"

"But what if he does?"

"If he _does_, then someone needs to smack him over the head with a brick until he realizes he deserves someone better than me." If Peeta's a dandelion in the forest, then she's a blazing, destructive flame; he deserves another flower that'll bloom alongside him, growing toward the sunlight, rather than something that'll inevitably burn him and all his little dandelion friends to a crisp.

The smile Madge sends Katniss's way is almost sad, almost… _pitying_, and it only enrages her more.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Katniss growls, turning to a rack of neon crop tops that look like something a pothead sewed.

She's surprised but thankful when Madge yields.

* * *

Katniss is convinced she'll become an atomic bomb and completely obliterate all of Panem if one more of her friends tries to tell her how she feels about Peeta—first Johanna and Annie, and now Madge, too?—and she decides only one person can remedy her anger.

So what if that person is technically the cause of it?

Mid-afternoon light floats through the open window in a medley of shades, casting over Peeta's still form as she slips silently into his bedroom. She notes that although he's snoring—he _never_ snores, not when he's healthy—at least some color has returned to his cheeks, and he must've showered this morning because his curls are softer, less wayward.

She feels something stir in her belly as she comes to kneel by his side of the bed, her chest tightening as she watches him. Even now, in his unconsciousness and faulty health, she still finds him more beautiful than any other man she's met; he looks like something out of a folktale with his honey-blonde curls, milky skin, and impossibly long lashes that refract each splinter of sunlight. Peeta's height has never been impressive, but he makes up for it with his broad shoulders (back before his knee gave him problems, he'd always sling her over his shoulder like a sack of flour; she'd have to pretend to be annoyed, but he always saw right through it) and that sculpted jawline that could inspire poems and songs of its own accord.

He's no Finnick Odair, no Greek god known only for his sex appeal and seductive pretenses, but he is perfect in his own way, and it kills her.

It kills her because she came her for verification, for confirmation that there's no way she could _ever_ want more from Peeta Mellark than what he's given her, but as she sits at his bedside, she fights the urge to reach out and touch him.

_God, he's beautiful._

She crouches beside him, taking his hand in hers to wake him up. She finds herself unconsciously grinning as his eyes flutter open, a hazy film coating over the deep blue as he blinks a few times, but soon he focuses on her.

And then he murmurs, "I'm dyin', Forrest," in his best Sally Field impression—which isn't much considering Peeta is about as good with celebrity impressions as Katniss is at flirting—and all the built-up tension fizzles.

He gingerly shifts over in the bed, pulling back the covers and yanking on her arm. "Come on, Forrest."

"Only if you stop calling me Forrest."

She curls up underneath the blankets with him, noting that even though his fever has quelled, his skin still bears a comfortable warmth, and she snuggles right up against him with her back to his chest. It's a position they've adopted in an innumerable amount of instances before, but suddenly she's hyper-aware of everything she used to overlook. Like the way his arms snake around her, one hand flattening over her belly and the other curving right under her breast; how his nose nuzzles into her pleated braid; how his hips settle so perfectly against her like they're pieces of some awkward heterosexual jigsaw puzzle.

How many years had she spent writing off this position as something entirely platonic? Because now, suddenly, it feels like so much more. Her heart is thrumming wildly, her belly clenching with heat, the juncture of her thighs aching in a way she knows is _anything_ but innocent.

Can Peeta tell? Does he know something's wrong with her?

He must have no idea, because he only makes matters worse when his grip on her tightens, his lips grazing the outer shell of her ear in a way that makes her brain want to pop like a helium balloon.

"I think I'm feeling better already," he whispers.

_Dear lord._ Any day before now, she wouldn't have dug for a double-meaning in his words, but now it's sitting right there with a congregation of flashing lights pointing straight toward it. She can't ignore it anymore.

She turns around, effectively wriggling out of his grasp.

"Peeta, we need to talk."

He looks up to her expectantly, his blue eyes sparkling with innocence under those long, golden lashes.

But he doesn't say anything, so she continues.

"You haven't ever thought about us being more than best friends, have you?"

His expression freezes into a sheet of silica glass, the emotions flickering across his face unreadable; she'd give anything to know what's running through his mind.

It seems like years before he replies.

"Well, I did kiss you over spring break, didn't I?"

"I thought we agreed to pretend that didn't happen."

"Okay, fine. I _didn't_ kiss you over spring break, but if I _had_, it would mean that I had thought about it," he says slowly, cautiously.

Her palms are drenched in sweat and she's convinced her heart is about to burst straight from her rib cage.

"And… what exactly did you think about it?"

His gaze digs into hers, as if he's searching them for what _she_ wants _him_ to say. "That we could never go back. That it would change everything."

_So he must not want it._ Good. That means they're on the same page.

Right?

She swallows and bobs her head in a nod. "Okay. So should we swear on it or something?"

"Swear what?"

"That we're never going to be anything other than best friends?"

The look of shock that hijacks his feature is so total, so pluralistic that she has no idea what he's thinking or feeling, but he quickly recovers, coughing and blinking.

"That's… that's what you want?"

Her fingers clench and she promises herself that this _is_ what she wants. She wants Peeta as he is. Madge had pointed out that everything around them is rapidly changing; Katniss needs to anchor them down into this moment so they don't get swept along with the currents, so no more change can possibly tear them apart. She needs him to promise her that things will stay the same. Because they're perfect just the way they are.

"Yes. It's what I want."

At least Peeta wants it, too. He didn't have to say it; she's positive he agrees.

(I mean, she's not particularly pretty, and she's irritable and quiet—why would Peeta _ever_ want more from her?)

* * *

"You may wonder why I've gathered you all here today," Peeta says as he marches back and forth like a military general in front of the ovens.

Cocking an eyebrow, Katniss looks to her left (ingredients) and to her right (even more ingredients) and wonders exactly who he's talking to besides her, but she'll play along.

Straightening her spine, she lifts her fingers to her forehead in a hand salute.

He makes a weak attempt at concealing the glimmer in his eyes and the smile that plays at his lips. "Well, Cadet Katniss, we are about to go to war."

"With who?"

He stops his pacing, his jaw tightening in mock-aggression. "With each other, Cadet."

She eyes him suspiciously for a moment—he's wearing nothing but a tight grey t-shirt and the Batman boxers she bought him for Christmas a year back, and she's even _less_ decent in her cotton boy shorts and one of Peeta's old, incredibly large tees that swallows her tiny frame. He'd woken her up no more than ten minutes ago, dragging her to the kitchen without even a hint of an explanation.

It's one o'clock in the morning.

In the middle of June.

And they're surrounded by an eclectic assembly of ingredients.

In their underwear.

She rubs her temples, not entirely convinced she's not dreaming; _what the hell is going on?_ "Peeta—_Sir,_ I mean—I don't think we are properly dressed for battle."

"The only armor we need speed and determination, Cadet."

"And for weapons, Sir?"

He pauses for a moment, his eyebrows crinkling as he gages the materials on the countertop behind her. "A piping bag, I think. And cupcake liners. We can bring in the tanks and the mustard gas later if necessary."

"Sir, if you don't mind me asking—what kind of war will we be fighting?"

There's a sharp glint in his eyes as the corners of his lips curl in that beautiful crooked smile of his, pincushion dimples and all.

He inhales.

"A _cupcake_ war."

She can't help but roll her eyes. What are they, five years old? Her entire façade drops as she groans, "Peeta—"

"It's on my bucket list, okay?" he laughs good-naturedly, his muscles relaxing as he abandons his own military persona. "I'm not quite sure exactly _what_ I had in mind when I wrote it, but it's there, and it has to be done or otherwise my life loses all meaning. Alright?"

"When I agreed to help you do everything on your bucket list, I hope you know I had no idea _what_ I was getting myself into," she grumbles, but she can't stifle her grin as he tosses her an apron.

"At least it's all been realistic as of yet." He, too, slips an apron over his head. "Prom, treehouses, candlelight dinners, cupcakes... We're doing this at one in the morning, by the way, because I feel like I've been completely underwhelming you with my requests and my version of excitement involves sleep-deprivation, apparently."

She doesn't dare disagree that she's found the list to be fairly minimal so far. She'd expected polar plunges or rock concerts, not things as tame as they've been. _At least it's manageable,_ she reminds herself. "So, are all the other things on the list just as boring, or do they actually get interesting as we go?"

"Well, we're on number seven right now… I think number three is when it really picks up. Number two, for sure. You'll probably want to bail by then."

"I told you I'd do the entire thing." Her hands firmly prop themselves against her waist. "I'm a woman of my word, Mellark."

"Just wait until you hear number two, and I promise, you'll run screaming."

Katniss has always been a creature of curiosity, and so now she feels the sensation burning in her lungs like a forest fire. She wishes he'd tell her the whole thing, but she knows that's not how it works. _One at a time, Everdeen._

Turning her back to him, she leans against the countertop littered with all sorts of ingredients. "So… what exactly is this 'cupcake war' going to entail?"

Absentmindedly, Peeta rests a hand on the small of her back; the gesture is nothing but friendly, as he's done it a million times before, but there's something about it that sets her on edge. She's been like this the entire summer—incredibly sensitive to his touch, questioning his motives—and she wants it to stop, to _go back to the way it was_, but now it's everywhere. _He's_ everywhere.

He begins jabbering on as if she hasn't transmuted into an iron pole at his side. "Well, the actual 'war' part is where both you and I have a batch of cupcakes, go out back, and mercilessly pummel each other with them until we're out and drenched in frosting. I figure you'll probably win, considering you've got aim and speed on your side and I've got the grace of a stoned giraffe, but I thought this process would be a good learning experience for you. Have you ever tried to make cupcakes before?"

She shakes her head. She can make Kraft mac n' cheese, variations of watered-down stew from whatever game she'd catch out back with Gale when she was younger, and gourmet PB&J, but other than that, Katniss has absolutely no culinary experience. The Mellarks have never let her near the flour… for good reason. If she doesn't confuse sugar with salt or cocoa powder with nutmeg, she's guaranteed to completely carbonize the batter in the oven.

Peeta only smiles, his hands grappling at a sack of flour. "Well, we've got our work cut out for us, haven't we?"

He begins by sliding a large mixing bowl between them, tossing in ingredients without even measuring them, simply going by weight and feel. Katniss tries to help, stirring in pinches of baking soda and cracking the eggs into the batter (Peeta has to fish out little shards of eggshell when her cracking goes awry), but ultimately the star of the show is him, and she decides that she'll let him do all the baking in their friendship from here on out.

As they're mixing the batter, Katniss doesn't know why—maybe it's because it's the middle of the night and they're both in their underwear—but her senses are on overdrive. Every time his hand glides against her back, his arm brushes against hers, his fingers guide hers between ingredients, she feels heat flushing in her cheeks and pooling between her thighs.

Her head is pulsing, wanting it all to stop—they're _just friends_ so he shouldn't make her feel like this—but her skin craves his touch, and whenever he leans over her shoulder as she throws a few spices into the bowl, his chest enveloping her back and his hot breath swelling over her neck, she'll snuggle up against him.

When the two dozen cupcakes are safely in the oven, Peeta then teaches her how to make the cream cheese frosting as they wait—which is something she supposes she might actually be able to recreate, considering there's only four ingredients, and it involves a lot of mashing and violent stirring. (Katniss's specialties.)

Actually _frosting_ the cupcakes proves to be an entirely different challenge of its own, however. Peeta doesn't dare trust her with her own piping bag; he lets her share his. After the cupcakes have cooled, he lines them on the counter and demonstrates how to squeeze the frosting onto the crest. His turn out impeccably, the frosting curved in softly-tipped bubbles, and he promises to help her as she tops off her own. His hands curve around hers to help her secure the bag, adding just the right amount of pressure.

"God dammit, Peeta. How are your hands so steady?"

"Years of practice, my lady," he whispers, his lips just barely skimming over her earlobe.

His chin is propped over the arc of her shoulder, her body practically swathed in his, and for a moment she forgets she's holding anything at all because all she can focus on is those perfect hands of his. She wonders what else besides frosting cupcakes, carrying massive sacks of flour, and playing with her braid those glorious hands can do.

The blush that ensues is furious as it enflames her cheeks. _Fuck._ She can't keep thinking like that.

When the cupcakes are all frosted, and Katniss is literally about to shove her head into the oven to hopefully scorch away all of her not-so-"friendly" thoughts of the youngest Mellark, he hands her a tray with a dozen cupcakes, taking another platter for himself.

The June air is mildly humid but completely still as they make their way to the backyard. Katniss hasn't been back here in years, and even in the dim luminescence of the street lights out front and the half-moon over the forest's canopy, Katniss can clearly make out the silhouette of the tree under which she'd withered when she was eleven. When Peeta had brought her the bread. Her throat thickens as her feet plant in the grass, her mind shooting back to that rainy afternoon.

That's when it all had changed. That's when he'd saved her. That's when she began owing him, which would be a debt she could never repay.

She's nineteen now. She's much healthier than she was then, much happier. But still, she feels her stomach churn as she looks down at the tray of cupcakes in her hands. Even though it's been eight years since then, and two or three since she last went to bed with an empty stomach, the thought of wasting twenty-four cupcakes when there are still people starving in this town…

When she turns to Peeta, she's startled to see him already watching her, his eyes sympathetic instead of questioning.

He doesn't have to ask. He knows exactly what she's thinking.

"What do you say we give each other one clean shot and then call a cease-fire?" he offers, his smile gentle, considerate. "That leaves eleven cupcakes for each of us. And, to be honest, I'm pretty hungry. I could probably eat all of them."

She wants to hug him harder than she ever has, to thank him for understanding her discomfort without making her explain. Peeta has always been able to read her like an open book.

He sets his tray down on the concrete steps, backing up a good five meters and holding his arms out at his sides, squeezing his eyes tight.

"Give me your best shot, alright? Pretend I'm Justin Bieber. Perez Hilton. I don't care, but completely _nail_ me. This is war, remember: there's no time for mercy."

She tries to not linger on his request to "nail him" for too long before setting her own tray down, her fingers fondling the cupcake liner, memorizing the dimensions and feel of the cupcake. She's much more confident with a shotgun than her throwing arm, but when she and Gale used to hunt she'd sometimes strike birds down with rocks, and she figures this isn't much different. Even better now, considering her target isn't moving and he's a lot larger than a sparrow.

But where does she want to hit him? She toys with the rim of the cupcake for a moment as she scans over his body. No, she definitely doesn't want to get any frosting in those beautiful curls, or on those Batman boxers. She could go for those toned legs that look almost copper in the poor lighting, but there's a slight chance she'll miss; she ultimately decides to play cupid and aim straight for his heart.

How symbolic.

She braces herself on her feet, coiling, then launching the cupcake straight at her best friend through the dark.

She can't help but smile when, just a few seconds later, he stares down at the glob of frosting etched just over his left lung.

_Not bad._

He nods in admiration, dipping his index in the frosting and clamping the finger between his lips. But he doesn't say anything until after he's grabbed a cupcake of his own, returning to his spot about fifteen feet away, his eyes focused nervously on the pastry.

"I'm going to make an idiot of myself," he chuckles, swiveling the object around in his fingers. "My sixteen-year-old self must've been just _dying_ to be humiliated in front of you when he wrote out that list."

"I doubt sixteen-year-old-Peeta knew it'd be _me_."

When he responds with a genuine, "It was always going to be you," she dismisses the comment. She can't afford to dissect his remark and search for some profound meaning under its surface; she's already confused enough as is when it comes to how they feel about each other.

She braces herself as he squares his feet, her eyelids plastering shut like crinkled paper. She doubts he'll even hit her, because while Peeta's hands and eyes are incredible independently, his hand-eye coordination is pretty pathetic. The boy may be the 21st century Monet or Renoir, and his upper-body strength is absurd, but expecting him to throw a small object with decent accuracy is like asking Miley Cyrus to go back to being Hannah Montana.

Katniss is a small target, anyway. He'll be lucky if the cupcake even grazes her.

So she's surprised when she feels something cool swipe over the crook of her elbow, looking down to see a streak of frosting marbled like war paint over her skin. Looking up to Peeta, she sees he seems just as amazed as her, his laundry-detergent blue eyes impossibly wide.

Ten minutes later, the two of them are hunched on the kitchen floor, their backs to the cool steel cabinet doors, several rumpled-up paper liners strewed over the floor by their legs. She can't imagine why either of them had thought downing five cupcakes apiece at nearly two in the morning was a wise idea, but it's too late now. She looks down to her slightly swollen belly and pouts.

"Remind me of why we did this."

Peeta only chuckles, wiping the back of his hand over his forehead. "I honestly don't know. I feel like more violence is happening in my stomach right now than during our actual war."

"Whatever we did back there was much closer to a tennis match than to actual combat, Peeta."

He nods in agreement, lifting an arm to unceremoniously wrap it around her shoulders, dragging her in closer to him. The way his fingers curl around her upper arm, his breath swirling through her hair as he presses his forehead to the top of her skull, sends shivers ripping through her core.

The fact that they're sitting there in nothing more than t-shirts and underwear only makes things worse.

Impulsively, Katniss cranes her neck to turn to look at him, her nose only inches from his. Those pools of blue that outshine any Crayola marker immediately find her own gaze, and Peeta smiles, his dimples hollowing in his cheeks.

And suddenly the effects of her own sleep-deprivation emerge from the shadows, dissolving her inhibitions until her imagination rages unhindered; every thought that she tries to suppress during the day is suddenly set free, swarming in the front of her mind, completely hijacking her rationality.

As she sits there, her eyes raking over the same face she's gazed at a billion times before tonight, she begins to see so many things she'd ignored before. Like the way his eyes look like the Atlantic, drowning her in their surfs until all she can see is him, only him, always him; how his tongue juts out to lick over those lips that had tasted like how the color gold would taste if she was to drink it, and dear _god_ she wants to kiss this boy again, here, _now_, until she can't remember how anything but his breath feels in her lungs.

It's two o'clock in the morning.

In the middle of June.

And they're surrounded by cupcake liners and chocolate crumbs.

In their underwear.

And she wants more than anything to abandon their "just friends" pact.

But before she can take action and potentially make a fool of herself, Peeta's hand lifts from where it'd been resting over his legs to cradle the side of her face. The other hand, which was caressing her shoulder, snakes out from behind her neck so that his thumb can brush over the corner of her mouth.

"You have, uh… a bit of frosting," he murmurs, his voice as heavy as an iron paperweight.

She watches as he brings his thumb back to her mouth, gently grazing over her lower lip as he drags his _own_ bottom lip under his teeth; the action is so absent-minded that she wonders if he knows he's doing it, but either way, the sexual tension in the room could outweigh a blue whale, and it's crushing her under its bulk. Suffocation has never felt so pleasant.

"What the hell are you two doing?"

The sound rips them both from their trance, Peeta's hands jerking away from her in a flash as they both turn to look at the entryway of the kitchen. A ruffled-looking Mr. Mellark towers there in his flannel pajama set, frowning at the pair of teenagers.

So much for sexual tension.

"We—we, uh… we were baking cupcakes—"

"At two A.M.?" His silver-streaked curls are flying off in all sorts of directions, and if Katniss wasn't about to vomit from shock she'd actually laugh at how comical the scene is. A father walking in on his son and his son's best friend while they're eye-fucking each other in their underwear with cupcake-liners peppering the floor.

Huh.

Katniss lets her hands cover her face—it does little to hide her cherry-red blush, but she hopes it's the thought that counts.

She almost has a heart attack when she hears Mr. Mellark suddenly chuckle, and when she frantically glances to Peeta in the fear that his father is going off the deep end, he looks almost as frightened as her.

Mr. Mellark only rolls his eyes.

"Well, I guess there are worse things two nineteen-year-olds could be doing at two o'clock in the morning."

* * *

_If you'd like to express your frustration with Katniss and Peeta's retrogression or Mr. Mellark's poor (or perfect?) timing, feel free to talk to me on Tumblr—I just created a new, entirely THG-oriented blog at __**the-peeta-pocket**__. I'd love to answer questions/address concerns or just fangirl in general with you all over my favorite fictional couple, so drop on in for a bit if you can!_

_(P.S. For those of you who are wondering when the __**'M'**__ components will come into play, that'll be next chapter! Thought I'd give you a fair warning, and also a promise that some long-overdue Everlark is on the horizon.)_

_Please leave a review if you can! I'd love to know what you're all thinking._


	6. Chapter 5 - Stars

_**Disclaimer:**__This is the first chapter where the whole '__**M**__' rating really comes into play, so if anything remotely smutty isn't your cup of tea, now would be the appropriate time to jump ship._

* * *

**006. Sleep Under the Stars**

In the same way that Peeta _adjusted_ to the limp-causing tautness in his knee, that families _adjust_ to new housing, that dieters _adjust_ to the taste of sugar-free soda, Katniss _adjusts_ to the feeling of heat clawing at her belly whenever she's within five feet of her best friend. Even actions as simple as a touch to her shoulder or his fingers in her braid send her stomach rolling in prickles of warmth; she thinks she's going crazy, but at least she's past the stage of denial.

The good-bye they face at the end of her summer is even harder than the one the year before, if possible, because back then at least she knew how she _felt_ for Peeta. Now, she has no idea.

However, she knows what she _should_ want from him—platonic friendliness, frequent phone calls, long walks with no hand-holding, etc.—because that's what's best for their relationship, what's healthiest. Of course it is. If she wants what they have to last until the end of time itself, and if she wants to be able to withstand a hundred miles worth of separation from him without fighting the urge to put her fist through the drywall of her dorm, she needs to hold him at an arms-distance. Friendship doesn't have to have an expiration date. Love can go sour at any moment, but true camaraderie has the shelf life of a Twinkie.

And considering they already agreed to be _just friends_, this arrangement shouldn't be too hard to maintain.

Even so, the separation is excruciating, and she finds it still takes quite some time to readapt to the Pittsburgh setting once the semester begins. This year, however, she's rooming with not only Johanna but Annie as well, in addition to Annie's cotenant from the previous year, Rue. Having three other girls filtering through the suite on a daily basis instead of only one curbs the worst of the loneliness.

Still, there isn't a day that passes without her chest tightening or her throat aching from the subtlest of triggers—the scent of cinnamon, a curly blonde head of hair, or even something as stupid as a loaf of artisan bread—which send her mind drowning in memories of her best friend back home.

In one of her lectures, she finds herself sitting next to a boy with startlingly blue eyes (not as blue as Peeta's, but then again, she doesn't think that's humanly possible) and she tugs out her phone to text him, because it's been too long since their last conversation, and she finds her screen already lit up with two new text messages. As if the wires in their brains are somehow connected.

_**Peeta:**__ Thought you should know I'm wearing my Batman boxers today_

_**Peeta: **__Is it weird that my underwear reminds me of you?_

She rolls her eyes, smiling like an idiot at her screen as she pushes her hair from her eyes.

_**Katniss:**__ As long as you don't throw cupcakes at anyone else while wearing them, it can be excused_

His response is almost immediate.

_**Peeta: **__Shit. If only you'd told me that before_

She makes a valiant effort to stifle the giggle that bubbles up from her lungs, but the sound she ends up making still merits a few condemning glares from the other students in the lecture.

God, she misses him like hell.

* * *

The weather in Pittsburgh seems to be relatively ungenerous in the fall, the air thin and wispy, but Katniss has always preferred the cold. She associates it with some of her best memories—hunting with her father when she was young, sharing mint tea on the back porch with Prim, building snowmen with Peeta—and if she had to live her entire life in one season, she'd choose autumn, when pumpkin-flavored things spike in popularity and the leaves burn brilliant shades of orange and red and yellow, as if all the trees have burst into flame.

The more time she spends outside during the season, the more nostalgic she becomes for home—or whatever's left of it. By the time fall is in full-swing, Katniss is nearly bursting at the seams, her loneliness at an all-time high. It's painful enough that she hasn't seen Peeta since the beginning of the school year, but the fact that four whole seasons have passed without her being able to hold the only person on this Earth she's not afraid to love with everything she has is _agonizing_. So, as she's ambling across campus one day in mid-October, she yanks her phone from her pocket.

The line only rings three times before it's answered.

"Katniss! Gosh, it's been ages since we last talked. I miss you!"

She doesn't know why she's let time stretch on so long without so much as a simple conversation between her and her sister—it's been three weeks, probably.

"Prim, I—I'm sorry I haven't called."

"No, don't be! Things have been super busy down here anyway. Mom's been working crazy hours at the hospital, which she seems to like… I mean, it's less time to sit around and, well… remember, you know? And I've been hanging out a lot with Lavinia, and she introduced me to Mitchell, Jackson, and Homes, so I think I'm finally starting to fit in, which is good. I just want people to like me, and I think they might."

The more Prim's monologue drags on, the brighter Katniss's smile becomes. She misses talking with Prim. (More like listening—Prim talks enough for the both of them.)

"Of course they like you, Prim. They'd have to be blind and heartless not to."

"Well, I hope you get to meet them someday! Although it's more of a priority to see you in the first place. It's been so crazy without you, Katniss. Mom's doing better—a _lot_ better, really—but still, I miss you so much. We both miss you."

Katniss feels like she's swallowed a grapefruit. "I miss you guys too, Little Duck."

"Is it possible—I mean, do you think you could come down for Christmas, maybe? Last Christmas was so lonely without you. We didn't have anyone in the house to sing us carols." Katniss _hated_ Christmas carols, but they were Prim's favorite component of the holiday, and since Katniss would rather dive into a sea of steaming tar than disappoint her little sister, she'd always grant her a song or two.

The memory rouses the taste of peppermint in the back of her throat; she feels her eyes stinging as she blinks back the moisture. Although Christmas with the Mellarks had been one of the most reassuring points of last school year, spending her first holiday season without Prim had been difficult. But she can't forget the reason behind the separation. "I don't have enough money saved up to buy a round-trip plane ticket, Prim. I hardly have enough for ramen noodles these days."

"I bet Mom could buy one! I mean, she's been working such long hours lately… and we haven't seen you in over a year, Katniss. Skype doesn't count."

Since her father's death, Katniss has learned to never anticipate _anything_ from her mother—she's about as accountable as a plank of plywood—so she dismisses her sister's suggestion, reluctant to get her hopes up.

So when she checks the mailbox two weeks later to find a small envelope concealing two shiny tickets, she almost passes out from excitement.

_Her mother pulled through._

After an hour-long Skype session with Prim that involves plenty of sobbing and giggling and girlish squealing (from Prim, of course. Katniss isn't capable of girlish squealing.) she sets up another call with Peeta.

She feels that familiar, strident warmth feathering out from her core the moment his pixelated face flickers across the screen. The warmth only festers when she notes that he's shirtless, leaning back at his desk with his broad shoulders completely bared for the camera, blonde curls slightly damp from a recent shower.

"Alright, Everdeen. What's special enough to merit a Skype call? Make the Dean's list? Meet Morgan Freeman? Solve world hunger?"

Her smile is ear-to-ear as she holds up the two tickets in front of her webcam. He peers at the screen for a moment before his lips twists up in their own beautifully genuine grin, and he's leaning forward, his face enlarged on her screen.

She covers her mouth. "I'm going to see Prim," she manages to whimper, batting the tears away with her eyelids as she wills herself not to cry in front of Peeta.

"Oh god, Katniss, that's—that's wonderful!" He pushes a few ornery curls from his temples. "What'd you have to do to get those tickets? Please don't tell me you shot someone."

"No, uh—my _mom_, she sent me them," she sniffles, swiping her hand under her nose. "Her salary at the hospital is so much better than what it was in Panem. She's… she's doing well. Prim's doing well—_great,_ she's doing great, and—"

She feels dizzy, disoriented, but absolutely _elated._

"Katniss, I'm so happy for you," he murmurs, his eyes wide and honest and beautiful, and if she didn't have two camera lens and a hundred miles of highway between them, she'd hug him, _kiss_ him, maybe…

It's a good thing she doesn't have the opportunity to find out exactly what she'd do.

* * *

In a whirlwind of papers, projects, snowstorms, pumpkin spice lattes, and ugly Christmas sweaters the break finally arrives, and Katniss finds herself on her first ever flight. She takes enough Dramamine to theoretically tranquilize a horse, which knocks her out for most of the ride down to Miami, and when she wakes up, she finds the same bleak, grey expanse stretching outside the plane as she'd seen in Pittsburgh.

Thanks to the exaggeratedly commercialized representation of Florida, she'd expected miles upon miles of sunshine. But she soon learns there's much more sunlight in her best friend's smile up in Panem than there is in Miami.

But that's okay. She's not here for the weather.

She's at the baggage claim when she feels sinewy arms coiling around her thin waist, a cheek pressed to her neck. She whirls around immediately to find her not-so-little sister standing before her, their eyes nearly at the same level… since when is Prim so tall? The Primrose Everdeen of her memory is so much smaller, more youthful than the girl that stands before her now, but she's no less delighted to see her. With her golden corn-silk hair, sun-speckled skin and eyes of a young doe, Prim is no longer the child that Katniss mothered for half of her life.

She thinks to herself, _How much can things change in eighteen months?_

Her question is never answered in full, because with each second Katniss realizes the world beyond her town certainly hasn't stopped spinning without her. Not only has her sister matured, but the change in her mother is striking, too. The once diffident, stony woman has loosened her resolve, the lines of stress in her face almost wiped away since Katniss last saw her. Of course, she isn't as vibrant and as loving as she'd been before Mr. Everdeen was killed, but at least she's responsive, and Katniss is thankful her little sister isn't living with a ghost anymore.

But not all the adjustment is easy to stomach. The townhouse Mrs. Everdeen is renting has been personalized so much that Katniss feels like she's intruding on someone else's home while her sister and mother feel completely at ease. After only one hour in the house she's slammed with the harsh reality that she _doesn't belong here_, that this _isn't her home_… this may be her family, the mother that birthed her and the sister she loves like her own daughter, but she doesn't belong here.

For a moment, Katniss wonders how narcissistic she's been for assuming her family couldn't get on without her. They've been more than surviving; they've been thriving, her mother adapting well to the new start and her sister settling in well with her classmates, and although she's happy for them, her chest aches to see how her place among them has withered like a dehydrated vine.

Of all the people in the world, she thought her family needed _her_ most. She'd been the one to lead them through those painful years after Mr. Everdeen passed—she'd gotten used to being the alpha in the pack.

But now she feels like _she's_ the extra mouth to feed, the extra body to house.

And it suffocates her.

The beach is a ten-minute walk from the townhouse and on Christmas Eve, when the sky is still a milky grey from the storms that've been scattering the coastline, she makes her way out to the sea, shoelessly padding along the bone-white sand. It's certainly warmer down here than in Pittsburgh, but the wind carries an empty chill that causes her to clutch the trim of her cardigan, folding herself tightly in the fabric as she walks along the shore.

She blankly watches the sea lap at her ankles like an overanxious puppy, feeling surprisingly lonely in the place she thought she'd be the most appreciated.

"You're miserable here, aren't you?"

Her head snaps to the side to see Prim's pixie-like face a foot from hers. She hadn't realized she'd been followed, but never will she turn down her sister's company.

In a weak attempt to contradict her sister, she reaches out and grabs Prim's hand in her own as she continues to walk along the seaboard. But she doesn't say anything.

"You're not really good with change, you know," Prim says softly at her side. "You always like things to stay exactly where they are, and so this… it's not easy for you. You don't have to tell me—I know it isn't."

Prim has always sported a kind of world-class empathy that's beyond Katniss; while Katniss has no idea what the people around her are thinking and feeling, Prim has it as a sixth sense. She's like Peeta in that respect. She knows what's going through Katniss's head before Katniss even does.

But still, the eldest Everdeen sister sighs, her integrity too solid to deny it but her pride too prominent to agree. "I'm really happy to see you, Prim."

"But that doesn't mean you like it here." She smiles understandingly. "You don't belong on a beach where the humidity is as thick as a milkshake and there's massive hordes of people everywhere you turn. This isn't your scene. You belong in Panem, in those woods we grew up in."

"I belong with _you_. I'm supposed to be the one who's looking out for you. I promised myself I always would, but… but now—"

"—Katniss, you've done more than we ever could've asked for," she murmurs softly, her palm pulsing against Katniss's. "The only reason we made it this far is because of _you_. But you have your own life to live, you know—you can't keep being a mother to your _own_ mother and little sister. You have to create a life for yourself. This is better for all of us, really—I mean, there are still mornings when I roll over in bed and expect you to be next to me, or when I come home from school thinking there'll be a borderline-stale loaf of bread you brought home from the Mellarks on the table, and I—I _miss_ you, Katniss, but things are finally starting to go in our favor. For all of us. Mom's been talking to me, and making sure there's always food in the fridge, and you… well, you're in _college_. You're not burdened by us anymore."

She wants to cry out, _You were_ never _a burden to me_, but she can't; every single day was a contest of survival, a game of hunger, and she struggled to support both herself _and_ them, but there hadn't been a single moment that she wished she didn't have them along for the ride. At least, not with Prim. Taking care of her little sister was one of the most gratifying things Katniss has ever done.

But the time for that is up.

She doesn't hold that rank any longer.

Her throat is tight, her chest pulsing, and she feels like she's strangling on molasses as she says pathetically, "I just don't know where my home is, Prim. I thought it was with you."

Prim smiles sadly at her. "It _was_, at one point, but all birds have to leave the nest eventually... you've got to find another place to perch. It's painful, but life isn't about doing what's most _comfortable_."

Katniss's jaw clenches. "I don't know where to go."

"Of course you do," Prim tosses back, her voice like silk against the coarse grain of the wind.

At first, Katniss wants to protest—_What the hell_ am _I supposed to know?_—but unlike the answer to her first question, this one splatters across the front lobe of her mind as if it's been scrawled in neon painting all along.

Of course she knows where her home is.

It's the only place she's ever been truly afraid to leave. A place that smells like warm butter and flour, where frosting is a food group and sturdy arms keep her planted in bed every night, where blue eyes are the only ocean and golden curls are all the sunshine she needs.

* * *

"How was the flight?"

Katniss sprawls out in one of the chairs by the baggage claim, eyes pinned on the metal conveyer belt as she waits for it to start moving, spitting her bag through the plastic curtain.

"Long. Boring. The kid behind me threw up the entire time."

Peeta's sympathetic chuckle rings like a chorus of silver bells on the other end of the line. "And how'd saying goodbye go?"

The entire affair had been bittersweet, as none of them knew when Katniss would see her family again, but with Prim's bird analogy lingering in her memory, it hadn't been as excruciating as she'd expected. Spending Christmas with her family had provided some odd sense of closure; they were doing fine without her, and so leaving them felt less like an abandonment and more like a farewell that'd been weeks in the making.

She knows she's always welcome with them. They're her family, after all. But they're not her future.

"It was a little rough," she finally says after a short pause. "But Prim's doing so well, and even my mother has some life to her… it didn't feel like I was betraying them by leaving, so it wasn't as bad as I thought. Besides, I didn't feel comfortable there. I wasn't happy to leave them, but I was more than relieved to finally get out of that state."

"Well, I'm glad you seem to be steering clear of separation anxiety."

She crosses her legs, pursing her lips as her impatience with the stupid baggage claim flares. "Enough about me. How was your break?"

"Full of surprises, actually," he chuckles, his laughter drizzling like honey. God, she misses him. "Soren hasn't been down for Christmas since Mom left, and so we took an impromptu trip up to Philadelphia, which completely blew up in our faces. We haven't seen him since he graduated from UPenn three years ago, so we went to his old apartment… turns out he wasn't even _there_, so we called him, and he said—rather angrily, might I add—that he was spending the holiday with his _fiancée_ down at Myrtle Beach. Apparently, he's been engaged to the girl for _two years_ and he didn't think to tell any of us in the little contact we've had. Who knows if he's even planning on inviting us to the wedding. But anyway, we were all the way out in Philadelphia, so we decided to spend Christmas _there_, which was a disaster since most of the halfway-decent hotels were booked, and… well, at least I got to spend some good, old-fashioned family time with my dad and Hans, right?"

"Whatever happened to Soren, anyway? Was he always so—_so_—"

"—So much like my mother?" Katniss had been afraid to say it. "He always got along better with her than he did with the rest of us, probably because he was the Herculean first-born she practically worshipped while my dad didn't play favorites. I have a feeling he's been contacting her lately, wherever she is, but none of us are all that eager to ask."

Katniss doesn't know exactly how to respond, so she doesn't.

A few seconds lapse before she hears him inhale. "Well, I guess this proves that we need you around during the holiday season so we don't make any rash decisions. What do you say you come spend Christmas with us next year?"

She can't help the smile that breaks out over her lips. He has no idea how much she'd enjoy that arrangement.

* * *

Second semester picks up full-speed when she returns to campus, and she immediately regrets taking eighteen credit hours as opposed to the recommended fifteen. On top of the heavier class load, her labs are twice as difficult; it isn't until this semester that she's ever regretted majoring in Environmental Sciences. She's here for the biology, not intangible ideas like gravity and torque. It takes a mere three weeks for her to decide her arch-nemesis is whoever first conceptualized physics.

And it's because of her stupid physics class that when Annie asks her mid-February if she wants to swing down to Panem with her, Katniss actually _turns her down_, because she has a lab write-up due at midnight, and the car ride down to her hometown would confiscate two precious hours she can't afford to lose.

What's worse is that Peeta pretends he's okay with it, tells her that it's _fine_ she hasn't come home since early November, when it's the farthest thing from _fine_ to her. Even if they're _just friends_, they're still best friends, and random text messages, weekly phone-calls and the rare Skype session don't satiate the clawing sensation of starvation as it rips through her abdomen.

She needs him. She needs to feel his warmth, to wrap herself in his sunshine; she doesn't understand the strange ache that simmers in her stomach at the thought of him, but whatever it is, she knows his touch is the only remedy.

And so after she submits her write-up at 11:53 P.M., she curls up on the sofa and sobs into a throw pillow. She must've not been as quiet as she hoped, because at some point the shy, quiet Rue slips from her room and comes over to her, wrapping her arms around Katniss like a grape vine until she stops crying. Rue doesn't expect Katniss to explain, simply sitting with her in the quiet to provide her with substitute touch. She's no Peeta, but if anything Rue reminds her of Prim, and so she accepts her closeness and lets the feeling of warm skin and a beating heart quell her distress.

She has never felt so weak, so feeble in her life.

When Annie comes back late on Sunday, she drops a white paper bag in Katniss's lap.

"He thought you could use these."

Frowning, Katniss tears back the top of the paper, opening the bag to see a half-dozen small rolls resting in the bottom of the sack. The warm, buttery scent that balloons from the pouch turns her tensed muscles to neoprene, and for the first time this weekend she suddenly feels _relaxed_. Peeta knows her well enough to understand that cheese buns make everything better.

At least for the time being.

* * *

She hopes she never has to discover what full-body paralysis feels like, but whatever she feels is pretty damn close when he calls her in March, his voice filled with gravel and a thousand years of pain that a twenty-year-old boy shouldn't ever have to know.

"Katniss?"

"Peeta?"

"Katniss, I—it's…"

"Peeta, what's wrong?"

"The doctors did x-rays on my knee today."

* * *

Spring break begins in a week from today, meaning every last soul on the face of the planet who has a car is more concerned with travel next weekend than this weekend. Meaning no one will take her home.

"Annie—"

"Katniss, I'm so sorry. I know how much this means to you, but I have a group project to finish up for Monday. I can't go to Panem."

But she needs to go, needs to be back in Panem, needs to be back in that bakery, needs to be with her sunshine boy because for the first time in ages he sounded more like a rainstorm than sunlight. And he might be sick.

The cancer might be back.

She shuts herself in her room and buries her head under her pillow, screaming into the threaded fabric. _How the hell did this happen?_ It's been over _three years_. She thought, surely, they'd escaped it by now.

He called her last evening after her Thursday night class got out, his words glazed in apprehension as he told her that he'd have to get a biopsy done next week. She'd been planning on returning to Panem for spring break, but he needs comfort _now_, and she told him she'd pull whatever strings necessary to bring her home to him this weekend.

Unfortunately, Annie's strings cannot be pulled, Johanna isn't about to drive her gas-guzzler two hours to a town she has no connection with, and Rue doesn't have a car. Katniss could always sift through campus and try to find Marvel, and although they haven't spoken in a year, for a brief moment she thinks she may just be desperate enough.

And then, out of the blue, Katniss experiences a little miracle in this otherwise merciless black hole of a situation.

She hears her phone vibrate at her side.

_**Madge:**__ All my friends are going to Panama City Beach for spring break this week and I'm going to tiny-ass Panem. What does that say about me?_

Her heart clogs her throat. Is Madge's break a week earlier than hers?

Before she can second-guess her desperation, her fingers fly over the keys and she holds the phone to her ear. It rings two, three, four times before Madge finally answers.

"I'd love to talk about my tragically pathetic situation, but I'm on the interstate right now, and God knows I'm a bad enough driver even when I'm _not_ on the phone."

"You were just texting me!"

"I was at a rest stop, Everdeen. Don't get your panties in a twist."

"Look, Madge, I have a huge favor to ask," Katniss breathes into the phone, rolling onto her back.

She hears Madge groan. "Unless it involves me refurbishing your _atrocious_ wardrobe—"

"Peeta might be sick again."

There's silence over the line for a few moments as Madge lets the declaration settle.

After a while, she blows a puff of air through the receiver. "Well, shit. I'm just past Carlisle, so I'll be at UPitt in just under four hours, okay?"

Katniss lets out a sigh the size of the state of Texas—she's beyond grateful she didn't have to humiliate herself and actually beg her friend for a ride. "Madge—"

"I'm only doing this because Dad's giving me two hundred dollars for gas this weekend." Her voice softens. "And because I care about the kid, too. I know how much he means to you."

"Thank you," Katniss exhales.

"Just know that this means _you'll_ be the one explaining to Gale why he's going to have to cancel our dinner reservations for tonight. You deal with his wrath better than I do, anyway."

Katniss would do anything from baking a cake to travelling across the Sahara in a wool sweater to show Madge her appreciation—getting in Gale's line of fire is a small, very digestible selection.

* * *

Each second feels like an hour as she and Madge speed down the highway, the pavement glowing amber in the light of the sinking sun. Her stomach is flipping in violent cartwheels, and she can't decide if it's because she's thinking too hard about Peeta or because Madge drives like a ninety-year-old woman on LSD. She can barely even appreciate the streaks of pink and orange in the sky as the daylight hours fade, because even the natural phenomenon reminds her of Peeta—his favorite color is this same shade of orange, after all—and every time a thought of her best friend pops up like a whack-o-mole in her head, she feels like she's going to vomit.

Of all the people in the universe, her sweet, everlastingly gentle Peeta deserves this the least. He didn't deserve this at sixteen, and he _certainly_ doesn't deserve his growing hope to be squashed after over three whole healthy years.

The last shard of light in the sky is just beginning to wane when Madge pulls up in front of the bakery.

"I can drive you back to Pittsburgh on Sunday if you need me to. I'm due for a big-city shopping outing, anyway."

Katniss leans over the console to give her a rare hug.

"You're a miracle-worker, Madge," she mutters into her hair, her voice stodgy. "You have no idea how thankful I am for all of this."

"You are very welcome, Ms. Everdeen."

She pulls back. "How can I repay you?" Katniss will never allow a debt to go unsquared.

The sly smile that slithers over Madge's glossy lips makes Katniss gulp.

"Let me pick out some skirts for you. Then we'll be even."

Before she knows it, she's standing at the door of the bakery with her sloppily-packed duffel slung over her shoulder and her heart beating at a hundred miles an hour. The bakery's closed at this late hour; she knows they probably won't hear if she knocks.

She doesn't have to mull over her options before she finds herself at the foot of the tree beside Peeta's window. She hasn't scaled it since the summer after they graduated—she never had any need, after all, considering Mr. Mellark has no problem with her marching uninvited through their front door—and she feels like a child again, like she's fourteen years old and about to wrap herself in her best friend's arms and rant about Gale's latest pigheaded contention.

But they're twenty now; despite always being children at heart—especially in each other's company—they are _adults_, and instead of gossiping about junior high relationships they'll be discussing the uncertainty of his own life.

Even with her bag dangling over her shoulder, she manages to scale the tree in record time, squatting on a branch as her fingers work at the window's seal.

She's relieved to find it unlocked.

If her Environmental Sciences degree gets her nowhere, she decides she can pursue some sort of criminal career, because she has _mastered_ the art of trespassing; within seconds the window pane is shoved upward and she stumbles into Peeta's room. When she steadies herself on her feet, she finds him sitting up in bed, hair ruffled and eyes startled.

"Katniss?" He's out of breath. She must've scared him.

She lets her duffel drop to the floor with a decisive _thunk_ and then she's on his bed, over him, her hands dimpling the mattress on either side of his shoulders, her braid swinging by his ear.

"You're in bed early."

Before she can even breathe, his arms are around her. One hand splays over the small of her back while the other crushes her thin shoulders to his chest. He hugs her with the might of a boa constrictor, the ferocity of a lion, but the gentleness of a lamb; she feels her entire body become pliant in his hold, molding into his silhouette as if she's made of clay.

She missed touching him. She missed _him_ touching _her_.

"I didn't think you were coming," he croons after a while, a slight quiver to his words.

She pulls back. "I'll always come for you," she whispers, her fingers cupping over the sharp definition of his jaw, feeling the slight graininess from a day's worth of stubble. Even in the poor lighting she can see the exhaustion in his eyes; no wonder he's in bed before 8:30. He probably hasn't slept since he came home from the clinic.

He smiles weakly up at her, craning his neck to press a chaste kiss to her cheek; the plush feeling of his lips against her skin sets her nervous system alight. Suddenly, she's acutely aware of their closeness, of how her hips are snug against his in a way that makes her ache... It takes every muscle in her body not to press harder against him, to eliminate every inch of distance between them.

Fuck. Her friend's life is in limbo, and she can't even curb her goddamn hormones. What the hell is wrong with her?

She shifts to his side, clamping her thighs together as she presses her cheek to his shoulder. _There._ That should keep her "inclinations" in check.

(Hopefully.)

"You know, you're allowed to use the front door," Peeta jokes as he wraps his arms around her, hugging her close like a teddy bear.

"Where's the fun in _that_?"

He chuckles, but after a few seconds the laughter fades in the back of his throat. "It… it almost feels like we're kids again," he murmurs, saying exactly what she'd been thinking moments ago. "You using the window… you sneaking into my room…"

"I know."

"Well, maybe that's good luck. I mean, we beat the cancer last time—"

She loves how he uses the legendary "we," as if she had _anything_ to do with his recovery last time, but she hates the fact that they even have to discuss this in the first place.

"You don't even know if you _have_ cancer, Peeta."

"Expect the worst but hope for the best, right?" He doesn't sound nearly as enthusiastic as she knows he intends.

"Peeta—"

"What's funny is," he begins, a wry humor slithering into his tone, "I just stopped waiting for it to come back. I'd been so paranoid since it went away the first time—I mean, it just _went away_ without surgery or anything, which already raised the probability of recurrence—but I thought that after _three fucking years_ I'd be out of the woods. But now…"

She doesn't know what to say. What string of hollow words could possibly make this any better?

Instead of ransacking her spent mind for some pitiful excuse of consolation, she curls up tighter against him, pressing her lips to his shoulder. Words have always been _his_ forte, anyway; her strong suits involve running and shooting things, neither of which prove very useful in this situation.

A long while passes before he hisses out a deep sigh.

"Well, on the bright side, this gives me an excuse to guilt you into knocking another thing off my bucket list, right?"

"You don't have to _guilt me_ into doing anything," she mutters. She'd willingly pose as shark bait for him at this point.

She tries to ignore the way his lips feel, pulled back in a smile, as they graze over her forehead. The fire in her belly only smolders; she begins to wonder just _what_ she'd be willing to do for him.

"Well, the next thing on the list is to have unprotected sex, so—"

Her breath catches on some valve in her lungs and she sputters against his shoulder, her eyes bugging dangerously wide. "Are y—"

And then he's laughing, the sound so beautiful and melodious and _infuriating_; she delivers a necessary slap to his shoulder as he corrects, "It's actually 'sleep under the stars,' but I couldn't pass up this _glorious_ opportunity to give you a heart attack."

"Peeta Mellark, you are officially at the top of my hit list."

When she glares at him, despite her seething anger, her heart flutters like butterfly wings when he winks at her through the gloom.

"And it was so worth it."

* * *

When he said "under the stars" just an hour ago, she definitely hadn't envisioned _this_—piles of feather blankets and downy pillows positioned under a faded landscape—but this is Peeta's list, not hers. His interpretation of "under the stars" is the only one that really matters… so what if it's a little unorthodox?

Either way, it landed them _here_, snuggled up in their treehouse on a Friday night, eyes raking over the synthetic stars he'd painted for them two summers ago.

"After tonight, there will be officially no way to convince my dad we're _just friends_," he laughs as she nuzzles into his side. "Sneaking out to sleep in a treehouse has to be the last straw."

"I think the last straw was that night in your kitchen," she counters.

"It's not like we were doing anything then."

"We were in our _underwear_, Peeta!" she half-screeches, half-laughs. _Not to mention we were also about to start playing a passionate game of tonsil-hockey._

"Like he said, it could've been worse. For instance, we could've been in _less_ than our underwear." His grin is teasing, but it still makes something in her boil. Maybe it's because there's an odd twist to his smile, something almost… _provocative._

"That's not something two people who are _just friends_ would have a problem with," she jests, clenching onto their pact from last summer with shaky, rigid hands. It's the only thing she can grab hold of right now as the closeness of his body engulfs her, the startling blue of his eyes suddenly everywhere.

_When did it get so hot up here?_

As he gazes down at her mercilessly, she's thankful for their agreement. Without it, there'd be absolutely nothing to hold her back, to keep her from throwing their friendship as they know it in the dumpster.

When he responds, there's something sharp in his voice, like a jagged edge, and it slices at her flesh.

"Well, usually people who are _just friends_ don't sleep in each other's beds every night they're together."

She feels her breath catch in her throat, and his own eyes widen slightly in surprise, startled that he actually _said_ that. They've been doing this for years, and even though small fractions of them _know_ just how unconventional the arrangement is, they've never questioned it.

Until now.

_How dare he use that against them?_ Her teeth grit, but strangely, she doesn't say anything. There's a spark of anger glowing in her chest, but another emotion douses it—Intrigue? Excitement?

As if to taunt her, Peeta's face inches a little closer, the arm that'd been draped across her torso tensing, caging her in.

"And usually, people who are _just friends_ don't hold each other like this, do they?"

She gulps. Heat shocks through her systems, pooling between her legs. _Fuck._ She'd rather be angry, because rage is something much more manageable than _this_.

"Peeta—"

His voice is a silk-woven whisper. "And when a guy is _just friends_ with a girl, he doesn't usually get jealous when she's dating someone else. He doesn't usually kiss her. And she doesn't usually let him."

Her entire body is electrified, pulsing with a violent current. She wants to disagree, to shut him up… to remind him that she's here to _comfort him_, that she came down to Panem only because he needed a friend…

Right? That's the _only reason_ why she came to be with him? Because that's what best friends—_just friends_ best friends—do?

Shit. She doesn't even know anymore. His face is so near hers that she can taste his breath, and if sunbeams and the color red had a taste, this would be it.

"Peeta, I came here to make you feel better—" Even she's unconvinced with her own assertion by how shaky her voice sounds. She'd expected to mourn with him. She'd expected to cry with him.

She hadn't expected the sexual tension that visited them last summer to suddenly return, smothering them until all she can feel is every inch of her skin meshed with his, the trickle of his breath swelling across the planes of her face.

And suddenly, his nose is skimming over hers, his smile gone, replaced with an expression so sobered she believes what he says before he even opens his mouth.

"If a guy was _just friends_ with a girl, he wouldn't _want_ to kiss her until his lips forget what anything else feels like, would he?"

Her resolve crumbles down in one massive avalanche of emotions, and she's swept up in its tide, her eyes fluttering closed just in time for his mouth to connect with hers.

It's only their second kiss, but it's no less exhilarating than the first, the sensations completely renewed as Peeta surrounds her, his palm cupping the side of her face. His lips fit against hers like lock and key, slanting over her mouth in a way that makes her heart carve into her ribs. As with everything else he does, Peeta's kiss is firm but tender, rendering her weightless.

Until she remembers what she's doing.

Her brain defeats her cravings as her hands find purchase on his chest, pushing him away. The moment his lips break from hers, everything feels cold, and her eyes shoot open to see him gazing at her, a degree of hurt registering in those baby blues that makes her want to wither away.

"We're _just friends_," she pants, but by now, she's not even sure that's what she wants. It's what's best, but _holy hell_ does the alternative seem so much better.

His jaw tenses, his eyebrows knitting in dejection. "Katniss, please—"

"Please, what?"

In a gesture so diminutive yet so significant, his thumb swipes over her cheek as his hand caresses the side of her face.

"Please let me kiss you. I—I need you, Katniss."

She doesn't know _why_ he needs her—to distract him from his impending fate, to ease the hunger in his belly that she feels in her own core, or for other reasons—but what she _does_ know is that his voice breaks her, shattering her into a million tiny shards.

And there is only one remedy.

No more persuasion is necessary. She lifts her hand to braid her fingers in the downy curls at the nape of his neck. She's not sure which one of them initiates this kiss, but she doesn't suppose it matters, because within an instant they're connected again, and she feels beautifully whole.

He kisses her hungrily, like a ravenous man who hasn't had food in weeks, the hand that isn't cupping her cheek moving to her hair, tugging the band from the end of her braid. She doesn't protest when he drags his hands through the pleated strands, freeing her tresses for him to wrap around his greedy fingers. Her own palms find his shoulders, so broad and strong, pulling him down to her as he shifts in between her legs, his hips settling against hers. The contact alone spurs a sudden tendril of heat to curl through her entire body, and she shivers; she hopes he doesn't notice, but he must, because she can taste the responding smile on his lips.

Her rationale violently claws at the corners of her mind—_what the hell are you doing?_—but it's no match for his lips, because he kisses every last ounce of fear from her body. She may regret this when it's over, but at the moment, it doesn't matter. She ropes off the logical quarters of her mind, definitively deciding that she won't bother herself with justifications or concerns.

She wants Peeta. She doesn't know how, or why, but she does.

That's all that is relevant.

His hand grazes on a pathway down from her cheek, skimming over her neck, shoulder, elbow, finally finding purchase on her hip. She's wearing sweatpants—and _awful_ idea in retrospect, considering their dome of body heat feels like a furnace—and his fingers clench around the fabric, his hips intuitively grinding against hers so that she can feel just how aroused she's making him. Her lips snap away from his as she lets out a sharp gasp; her sound seems to spur him on, because his own mouth finds hers more eagerly this time, his tongue sliding against the seam of her lips, pleading for access.

She complies. Neither of them has had much practice kissing, but their movements reflect the others instinctually, easily, and Katniss has never felt kissed so _fully_.

Of all the people in the world, Katniss is not exactly high on the list of sexually aggressive partners, but with her inhibitions lowered and her body aching with pent-up longing, she finds herself gripping onto Peeta's shoulders as she rolls him onto his back, her knees landing on either side of his waist. The action disrupts the kiss, and she opens her eyes to find Peeta's brows arched in rapt surprise, his cheeks flushed and hair tousled.

She has never found him so attractive before.

And by the way his gaze rakes over her hungrily, she thinks he must be thinking the exact same thing. Instead of embarrassing her as it typically would, it only emboldens her, and she brackets his face in her palms to reconnect their lips.

"Please tell me I'm not dreaming," he mutters to her lips as his hands find her waist.

She gasps when she feels his fingers tug at the hem of her t-shirt, exposing her midriff; when he palms her bare skin, her flesh feels like it's been lit on fire.

"Do you have dreams like this often? Kissing your best friend in a treehouse?"

He chuckles but doesn't answer her. She finds herself more than okay with the sudden silence—there are much better things to do than talk, anyway.

Her own fingers find the bottom hem of his shirt; she doesn't have to ask for him to understand what she wants, and within a few moments he's wriggled from the extra article of clothing. With his torso now exposed, she allows her palms to roam the broad expanse of his chest, his skin fiery yet soft under her fingers. She's been around him shirtless so many times before, but now it all feels so different.

Both of them are well aware that Katniss is to sexual prowess as Leo is to an Oscar, so both of them are equally shocked when she begins to pull at her own shirt. Peeta's barely able to gather himself to help her remove it.

"It's getting really hot up here," she explains as she sits up on his hips, although she knows the _real_ reason she did this was because:

She wants him to touch her like she just touched him

She trusts him enough to let him see her in a way no one else has before (he is her _best friend,_ after all)

She happens to be wearing that orange bra she bought a few years back, since it reminded her of Peeta, and if he's ever going to see it _now is as good a time as ever._

His eyes strain to stay connected with hers; he must be struggling _not_ to look her over, because even as she sits half-naked on top of him, he still respects her personal space enough to grant her this element of privacy.

But now, oddly, that's not what she wants.

"You can look at me, Peeta," she whispers, her bottom lip catching under her teeth.

As always, he does what she asks. She watches his expression transform as those blue pools drown her, her stomach flipping pleasantly in reaction. In all honesty, Katniss knows she's not the most attractive creature to ever grace the planet—her skin is uneven and dusky, her bones sharp and her breasts small under the cups of her bra, and she's wearing no make-up—so innately, she expects Peeta to see her as such. But he doesn't look at her in mild disgust as predicted, or even like she's a piece of meat; he drinks her in as if she's made of solid gold, has just sprouted wings, and glows in the dark.

He shifts under her, pushing himself up so that he's sitting straight, his stomach flush against hers as his hands splay over the bare skin of her back. She shivers underneath his touch.

"Katniss Everdeen, your body is just as beautiful as your soul."

Fronds of heat feather down to the spot where their hips meet as he plants open-mouthed kisses, slow and reverent, along the column of her throat. She weaves her fingers in his hair to anchor herself there, because if she doesn't grasp onto him, she's convinced she'll use those recently-sprouted wings to fly away into some state of rapture.

As he kisses her neck, his lips leaving a trail of white-hot heat along her flesh, one of his hands glides from her back to her ribs, his palm flattening against the underwire of her bra. Her heart thumps wildly and he draws back, eyes wide in silent question.

Her silent answer comes in the form of her hand flattening against the back of his, guiding his palm over the fabric of her bra.

She doesn't know if it's the way his hand works over her, gently pressing and kneading her through the cloth, or the way that his teeth lightly nip at the juncture of her neck and her shoulder, but a sharp moan forms in the back of her throat. In response, she feels Peeta hum against her skin, and it causes her to tremble in his grasp. Her entire body is live wire. The feeling of his lips and his hands takes her higher and higher, but it's not enough, it's _never_ enough, and she impatiently guides his other hand to the clasp of her bra in the back, allowing him to fumble with it for a few moments before she ultimately snaps it free.

"Katniss—" Her name turns her body to pudding as he moans it against the skin of her throat, his kisses trailing down, down, over her clavicle and sternum until his lips are on her breast, one palm gently working over her flesh as his remaining hand presses against her back, desperately, holding her to him. Pleasure shocks from her chest down to her core, and she gasps again, the taste of his name so sweet on her lips.

She never did anything like this with Marvel—or _anyone_—and never has she been so thankful, because with Peeta it's new and unfamiliar and frightening and beautiful and restorative, and it makes _sense_ with him, only him. They're supposed to be _just friends_, but somewhere along the way he became her everything, and she became his, and this is right.

It's strange and it's sudden and confusing and probably will ruin everything between them. But it's been a long time in the making, and she can finally breathe after having her oxygen siphoned for years.

She complies when he gently lays her out over the blankets on her back, hovering over her with a few stray curls falling in his face. While the kisses before had been hasty and starved, when his mouth captures hers this time around, his lips are quiet, careful, adoring. He kisses her slowly, as if they have all the time in the world. Maybe they do.

She feels his palm sweep down her sternum to her abdomen, past her belly button and trailing along the waistband of her sweatpants. The ache between her thighs suddenly intensifies as she knows what he's thinking, what he _wants_, and she draws back, her own eyes searching his expression for some sort of answer.

His gaze is shy, curious, affectionate.

"May I?" he questions, because he would never _ever_ push her boundaries without her permission. Not boundaries like this, at least.

Her throat is dry as a bone, her temples pulsing as she searches for her voice deep down in her chest cavity.

"I've never done this before," she confesses, her voice feather-light.

Eyes squeezing shut, he leans his forehead against hers, lifting his hand to cup her cheek.

"Neither have I."

"I don't know what to do."

He presses a soft kiss to the tip of her nose.

"We can figure it out together."

And with that, the seams of their lips converge, their mouths hot and nervous and eager all the same. She feels him trembling as he dips his hand past her waistband; she sure she's quivering just as much. But she wants this. And he must want it, too.

She's thankful his lips are on hers when his fingers find her slick heat, because at least his mouth is there to catch her gasp and _her_ mouth is there to catch his moan, because his touch is fire and ice, summer and winter, stars and moons; there's a tensed coil in her core that only tightens as he dips a finger in, and then two. He murmurs something about how wonderful she feels, and she can only whimper back.

It doesn't go entirely without hitch. They're new to this, after all; she has to give him directions on more than one occasion, but for the most part he listens to her sounds to identify what should be repeated and what should never be done _ever_ again. With a little help, he soon discovers what makes her writhe pleasantly underneath him, and with careful focus directed there she feels that coil in her stomach compressing, tightening, _vibrating_ as his lips work over her cheek, jaw, throat, collar, and then the heat is building and building and his name forms on her lips and she tries to warn him before she shatters entirely, brilliantly, in a flash of Technicolor. When that coil suddenly unravels his mouth is on hers, and she pours a string of incoherent cries against his lips, most of which sound somewhat like his name, and she bursts, turning to a pile of tingling stardust underneath him.

It takes a few moments for her breathing to even out before she opens her eyes, finding him smiling down at her with heavy lids. The warning signs of embarrassment begin to flood her cheeks, but before they can progress, his lips are on her forehead.

"That was beautiful. _You_ are beautiful."

It only takes those six words for her storms to calm into soft ripples.

If he wants her to return the favor, he doesn't ask; instead, he wraps his arms around her sticky silhouette and gently cradles her against him, holding her to his chest just like he has so many times before. But now she is boneless, she is weightless, and she is completely satisfied.

Not to mention, tragically exhausted.

He tucks her into the blankets, snaking his arm under her neck so that she can rest against the flat of his chest, and she clings to his warmth like a lost child, her hand splaying over his bare skin and memorizing his feel. Since she's not sure whether or not she'll regret this in the morning, she might as well capitalize on the sensations now.

She's flirting along the ridge of unconsciousness when she feels his lips against her temple, his fingers brushing her sweaty hair from her forehead.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

She doesn't know what on _earth_ he could possibly be thanking her for—For helping him knock off another item on his bucket list? For distracting him from his current situation? For relieving the tension that's been building between them for years now? Or for something else too grave, too significant, too _genuine_ for her to believe?—but at this point, she's too tired to play any guessing games.

After all, those are her least favorite games to play.

* * *

_I'm sure you ALL love unresolved plotlines, so that's why I'm leaving it here. I'm hoping this little bit of lemon zest (I'm praying you all don't think it was too distasteful… smut definitely isn't my forte) will at least make all this confusion bearable. Of course, things will catch up with these two lovebirds pretty quickly, because we all know Katniss is the queen of misinterpretations—get excited for even MORE of her oblivion next chapter! Woo!—but I promise, there are good things coming. Eventually._

_If you have the time, please tell me what you're thinking about this circus of emotions! Constructive feedback is eternally appreciated through reviews, and I'm always accessible on Tumblr at __**the-peeta-pocket**__._

_Have a lovely week!_


	7. Chapter 6 - Blanket Forts

_A/N: I don't think I've ever had as much trouble with a chapter as I did with this one—I scrapped it completely three times (I even tried writing it from Peeta's POV, but that was a disaster). In the end, I completely shredded the outline… so the turn of events was a little unexpected, but well-deserved, I think. (Fingers crossed.)_

_Also, I'm sorry because this chapter is embarrassingly long. Oh well._

_**Disclaimer:**__ Super-smut on the way. This is probably the raunchiest chapter I've ever written, so that's… fun._

* * *

**005. Spend an Entire Day Building Blanket Forts, Watching Disney Films and Baking Brownies**

A freight train of mortification pierces Katniss's chest like a hole-punch when she wakes in the morning.

_Shit._

_Fuck_.

What had they _done_?

His arms corded around her are enough to keep her anchored, conscious of her surroundings. If Peeta weren't holding her, she'd probably roll straight out of the tree house and plummet to a mitigating death. She reckons it'd be a much easier fate than whatever she's about to face.

He's still asleep, his breath hot as it feathers delicately against her neck. She's thankful he isn't awake just yet. This gives her at least a few solid moments to _think_, to figure out what the hell she's supposed to do, to figure out exactly what she feels.

(Or to go into denial.)

What was she _thinking_ last night? Or, more importantly, what were they _both_ thinking last night, when they abandoned everything they used to honor? They're not built for this, built to withstand extreme heat or lust. They're not meant to spend nights curled under blankets with fervent kisses and wandering hands—the thought makes her cheeks flush all over again because, oh god, he'd _touched her like that last night_, hadn't he?—and she knows it. She knows he knows it.

They are meant to be _just friends_. They are meant to be _best_ friends.

She repeats that mantra over and over again in her head until she begins to believe it.

Now, Katniss isn't stupid. Even though the cool hues of morning have sewn a new type of lucid sobriety over her thoughts, and she sees their situation differently now than she had last night, she can't deny that what happened had been what she wanted at the time. She used to be naïve enough to deny something like that, but she isn't anymore. She wanted Peeta.

But the issue at hand isn't whether or not she _wants_ him. It's whether or not she _should_. And, most definitely, she should _not_.

She isn't allowed much more time to explore the recess of her mind before Peeta stirs against her shoulder, his lips finding her skin naturally. She freezes against him.

Sensing her change in resolve, he grows rigid, too.

"Katniss—"

He doesn't have to say anything else. Those two syllables have told all in their apologetic, pleading tone.

She plucks herself from his grasp, putting as much space—literal and metaphorical—as she can between them. "I don't want to talk about it," she says.

He's upright in a second. "Katniss, please—we have to. We can't just p—"

"Peeta," she interrupts, her tone wired thin and strained. "I can't… I can't do this."

Peeta stills, anxious pain registering over his features.

Her back to him, she crawls away, hovering above the ladder. "I—I need _time_, to think, to… to figure this all out, okay?"

When she turns to look at him, she finds him watching her. He looks like he's just been flattened by a semi.

Breathless. Crumpled.

But he only nods, because whatever Katniss wants, Peeta will deliver.

* * *

Her knuckles drum anxiously on Gale's door, hoping she has the address right, because it'd be a pity to wake a stranger at 7:30 in the morning on a Saturday. She hasn't been to his new apartment yet; until now, she's had no reason to visit.

When a ragged Hawthorne that looks more like an aggravated house cat than an actual human answers the door in his boxers, his eyes scribbling murder all over her skin, she makes a mental note to never wake him up again.

"What the hell, Catnip! The sun is barely up… why the fuck are you?"

"I need to see Madge."

Gale narrows his eyes at her, clearly reluctant to indulge Katniss, but there must be something feebly desperate in her expression because after a few moments, he gives in. Rubbing his tired face and groaning, he turns around. "Madge, you have a visitor!"

It only takes a few seconds before his girlfriend appears in the doorway, her confusion only deepening as she takes in a disheveled Katniss standing before her. "What's going on?"

"Fucking injustice, _that's_ what's g—"

"Gale, shut up and go make the coffee." Madge turns away from her boyfriend to face her friend. "Are you okay?"

Katniss waits until a half-wounded, half-too-exhausted-to-put-up-any-real-sort-of-fight Gale saunters away from them. It isn't until his back is turned that she allows her bones to crumble, her entire resolve pinching into dust as she presses her hands to her heated cheeks, eyes blankly falling to the floor.

"I did something awful. I think I ruined us."

It's obvious Madge doesn't quite understand what Katniss is getting at, but she grabs her friend by the arm anyway and gently pulls her inside, guiding her to the sofa. "Here. Gale will have the coffee in ten minutes. Talk to me until then, okay?"

"I don't want him to hear this," she whispers. Truth be told, she didn't even want _Madge_ to hear this, but she's reached the point where she knows she can't fix this all on her own. Rarely does she reach out for assistance, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and considering Madge is her most candidly diagnostic friend, the assistance could be helpful.

She scoots closer to Katniss on the sofa, lowering her voice. "We can talk quietly, then. Gale's probably dozing against the counter, anyway."

Katniss nods curtly. "Please don't judge me."

"You know I won't."

"And please never tell anyone."

"My lips are sealed."

She inhales.

"I think I'm falling for Peeta."

* * *

She's knows their piecemeal, wobbly friendship isn't back to where it was before she arrived on Friday—will it ever be?—but at least he hugs her when she leaves. At least she still feels his breath in her hair, his palms flattening against her back and shoulders to hold her against him. At least she knows that although he's upset with her, it's for the best.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make you feel any better," she tells him quietly as they stand outside the bakery, Madge's car parked at the end of the walk. After Katniss had told Madge everything—_everything_, from their first kiss to their adventure last night—she begged her to take her home, so she could escape all this. So she could distract herself, because God knows that's what Katniss does best.

Peeta's breath catches in his throat, as if he wants to say something, but he remains silent.

"Call me after the biopsy, okay?" she whispers. "And when you get the results."

"Are you coming down next week?"

She swallows hard. She didn't think he'd want her to anymore.

"If you'll take me in."

He pulls back, hands on her shoulders.

"I will never turn you away, Katniss Everdeen."

* * *

She doesn't expect him to call her on Tuesday after the procedure, but he does.

She doesn't expect it to be more than a five minute conversation, but it is. After an hour and a half she finds herself lying diagonally across her mattress with one leg propped against the wall and the other flattened over her pillow, her stomach aching from laughing so hard at Peeta's stories of his physician, Dr. Abernathy, and his misanthropic narratives.

She also doesn't expect him to call her on Friday with the results of the biopsy just before she and Annie leave for Panem, but he does.

She doesn't expect him to be crying, but he is.

She doesn't expect the doctors to have issued him a clean bill of health.

But they have.

Peeta is safe.

_Her _Peeta is safe.

And this miracle seems to trigger more of its kind, because not only is he healed but to some degree, so are they; when Annie drops her off at the bakery he meets her on the front steps, his arms coiling around her with boa-constrictor ferocity but instead of robbing her of air, he gives her more, and she can finally breathe again. They're laughing and spinning around (as well as he can with his sore, patched-up knee, at least) with tear-stained cheeks, and for now, she thinks they may just be okay.

Even though Hans is away at college, leaving only Mr. Mellark to accompany the pair, dinner at the bakery practically reaches Christmas caliber. All of Peeta's favorite foods weasel their way onto the table—four cheese lasagna, cinnamon apples, edamame, an array of pastries snagged from the front, and of course, cheese buns. They eat until they all look to be four months pregnant and wind up in the lobby of the bakery for a non-competitive game of charades.

And they're happy. They're all happy. The friction between her and Peeta is all but buried six feet under, because after tonight she's realized petty conflicts mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. Not when just a few hours prior, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed sunshine boy's survival was up in the air.

That night, neither of them need to ask for company. Katniss doesn't even waste the time settling in the guest room; she goes straight to Peeta's, letting him tuck her into his own bed, letting him wrap himself around her. Letting him nuzzle into her braid.

She's somewhere in that hazy stratum just above unconsciousness when she feels his lips on her hair.

"Peeta?" Her voice is surprisingly strong.

"Hmm?"

She curls slightly in his grasp, her eyes finding the ceiling.

"Are we okay?"

He sighs. "I think there are a lot of answers we owe each other, and a lot of compromises we need to make, but… we'll never _not_ be okay, not as long as we keep trying to make this work. And I'll never give up on you. I hope you know that."

A small smile ghosts over her lips as she cuddles more snugly against him. Tonight, sleep comes quicker than it has in weeks.

* * *

She expects Peeta to try to talk things out with her early in the week, but oddly, he only seems to shy away from the topic. Evasiveness has always been one of Peeta's favorite strategies—she's certainly the blunter of the pair—but still, when he said they both had answers they owed each other, she'd anticipated questions.

Not silence.

She begins to wonder if it's because Peeta's come to regret that night, too. That maybe he's reached the same conclusion she has: Their friendship always comes first, always, over everything.

Or maybe he's realized he deserves better than her, that he deserves sunshine and optimism and imagination, not a girl who rains on parades like it's her day job. Maybe he's come to the conclusion that he was misguided in ever wanting to be _more_ than friends with her.

(It can't be because he's afraid of hearing the truth out loud. It can't be because he'll take ambiguity over a harsh reality any day. No. That can't be it. He _must_ not want her anymore.)

Either way, his vow of silence makes her squirm. She _hates_ vagueness in the same way that vegans hate Big Macs—but what can she do about it? Sit him down and slap him across the face with her candor?

By the time she's returned to UPitt from spring break, she's about ready to play Harry Potter and run headlong into a brick wall, only without a pushcart and without the intention of actually going _through_ the platform.

* * *

Time passes with molasses-paced sluggishness, and she learns that even the separation from Peeta doesn't make her feel any better. This monster clinging to her back seems to follow her wherever she goes; avoiding him doesn't fix her problem.

It isn't until sophomore year is in the review mirror that things begin to improve. She assumes coming home to him for the summer will be an entirely new vein of hell, but surprisingly, it only takes about a week of long hours at the bakery, hikes in the woods, movies with friends and nights curled up in bed with her sunshine boy before the invisible string that had once been strangling them slowly begins to unravel.

Maybe it's because she eventually comes to terms with the nature of their friendship. The ambiguity had been killing her before, but she's since grown familiar with it. She eventually understands that their friendship doesn't need a definition to survive; all she needs is him, with her, reminding her every day how to smile.

The best relationships don't always need titles, after all.

Of course, the war with her nerves is never won. Her heartbeat never learns how to stay calm with the touch of his fingertips, and her lower belly aches whenever she finds him wrapped around her under the comforter. The conversation she had with Madge the morning _after_ that night—the night they don't ever dare mention, afraid it'll shatter this peaceful state of ignorance—had brought Katniss to a revelation she'd been battling for so long. She knows exactly what she feels for Peeta; instead of denying it, she pilots around it.

By the end of the summer, she's mastered the art of pining for her best friend while holding him at an arms-length.

The new school year brings an onslaught of change for both of them. With Hans now officially in Harrisburg for his new job, Mr. Mellark has allocated extra responsibility to Peeta. Not only does he craft pastries and man the ovens, but he's been named the official cake consultant at the bakery as well. Additionally, Peeta told her they'd be hiring an extra associate to help run the front and keep the lobby clean, meaning he'll have someone to mentor. She's excited for him; she knows Finnick and Delly keep him company during the school year, but it'll be good for him to have a workmate to keep him from going stir crazy.

On Katniss's end, she's officially moving off-campus into a small apartment with Annie. It'll be strange to transition from Johanna's ceaseless harassment to cohabiting a loft with someone so much quieter than the ever-so-audacious Ms. Mason, but Katniss knows they'll stay in touch, as will be the case with Rue, too.

On top of her residential adjustment, Katniss has also been hired by Heavensbee Engineering, Inc.—a company that designs tools and technology to reduce air pollution, and happens to be based in Pittsburgh—to do something tedious like bookkeeping or filing. But at least she's immersing herself in the industry she aims to graduate into, so it's a start.

The job isn't exactly demanding, as she only works fifteen hours a week, but with another sixteen credit hours piled on for school, Katniss doesn't find much time to stay connected with Peeta once the semester begins. He's always so busy at the bakery whenever she has time to call; she's always in class or at work when he's freed up. Their schedules simply don't align.

And to make matters worse, she has a shift or two almost every Saturday. So whenever Annie can make an impromptu trip down to Panem for the weekend, Katniss is stuck in Pittsburgh.

It kills her. She hasn't seen Peeta since she left Panem for school in August, and she can count the number of real conversations they've had on her fingers.

On the Friday of the first weekend in November, she's about to leave for class when Annie pokes her head into Katniss's bedroom.

"You're working this weekend, right?"

Katniss nods.

"Bummer. Well, just a heads-up, I'm heading back home after I get out of class. Don't throw any wild raves while I'm gone, alright?" She winks.

"Damn. There go all my plans."

"You know," Annie begins, leaning in a little through the door frame. "You _are_ twenty-one now. You can go to parties—Jo could take you. She always knows where the best ones are, anyway."

Katniss only shrugs; she's never been much of a party girl. She didn't even drink on her twenty-first birthday—she'd been so wrapped up in a paper for her Bioethics course that she'd essentially _forgotten_ what day it was until Peeta texted her. _Sorry I'm missing the big day. I'll buy you some cheap, fruity cocktail next time you're in town to make up for it. And then bake you an extra batch of cheese buns._

Which reminds her that she hasn't spoken with him all week. So when Annie ducks out of her room, Katniss fumbles in her open knapsack for her phone.

_**Katniss:**__ Annie's leaving for the weekend, meaning I'm going to spend my Friday night moping on my couch and watching Netflix_

_**Katniss: **or you could distract me with a skype date_

She's surprised when he answers within five minutes. These days, it always takes him so much longer to respond, since his hands are usually tied up with a piping bag or a sheet of fondant.

_**Peeta:**__ As much as I'd love to distract you with a pixelated version of my face, I've got plans tonight_

It feels like someone just skewered her heart with a toothpick, but she recovers quickly.

_**Katniss:**__ Oh. Well have fun._

She shoves her phone back in her sack, not waiting to see if he responds.

As she sits through her Analytic Geometry course, twirling her pen absentmindedly between her fingers, she tries to push the thought of Peeta from her mind. But he keeps crawling back in. While elusiveness may be one of his closest friends, concealment is not; Peeta has always told her everything, so why was his text so vague?

_Could he… could it be possible that he has a date?_ Blood curls in her cheeks and her mouth tastes like month-old milk at the thought. She shakes her head, trying to dismiss the image of him smiling at a girl who is _not_ her. He'd tell her if there was someone in his life.

But even if there _is_ someone, it shouldn't bother her. She knows she doesn't deserve Peeta—she's always held firm that he should be with someone better than her, and maybe he's finally found someone. In any case, she should be happy for him.

But it doesn't do anything to quell the nausea in her belly or the tightening in her chest.

She pulls out her phone as her teacher scrawls a barely-legible proof on the board, pulling up Peeta's Facebook. She's never been the most functional user, but he updates pretty regularly, so she figures it won't be too difficult to find out if there _is _someone.

There isn't anything patent from a first glance, and she feels her anxiety ebb as she scrolls through his most recent posts. She was just overreacting, of course. Peeta would tell her if there was someone, because why wouldn't—

_Shit._

Her heart flies up into her throat as a picture surfaces. It's a slightly grainy selfie; a girl is holding the camera, Peeta at her side with a streak of flour under his eye like war paint. _Bristel Jimenez was with Peeta Mellark._

Katniss doesn't recognize _Bristel Jimenez_, the girl who tagged Peeta in her photo, but something unfamiliar swirls on her tongue, tearing through her chest with no hesitation. She has dark hair and an olive complexion much like Katniss, but the comparison ends there; it's clear the girl is at least partially Hispanic, her eyes dark and big and her lips full.

Katniss can't think much beyond _She's beautiful, and I hate her._

After glaring at the photo for a few more moments, studying the genuine smile on Peeta's face just before noticing the arm he has wrapped around her shoulder, she reads the caption.

_Love the new job and my new coworker!_

Katniss wants to scream, vomit, then scream again.

She doesn't understand this feeling coursing through her, like a sort of fog, or mist, swelling around her and filling her lungs until she can't see anything, can't even breathe. But it drowns her, hijacking her senses until her mind is flashing with green anger.

What the hell is wrong with her?

Seething, she slams her phone upside-down on the table. The more she looks at that photo, looks at those blue eyes she hasn't seen in months next to those brown eyes she's never seen in her life, the more she wants to fist whole chunks of her hair from her scalp.

It takes an agonizingly long hour before the class is up, and almost immediately she jets from the lecture hall to her now-empty apartment. Without a single drop of penitence she slams the door behind her, tearing through the lounge and shutting herself in her room.

Only once her face is buried safely in the pillow does she finally scream.

Why didn't he tell her he was working with a girl? Why didn't he tell her anything about her? Was he purposely trying to keep this from her? Each unanswered question spurs a million more of its kind, and before long Katniss finds herself shoved under a pile of sheets, muscles rigid in anger.

Is _this_ why he's been so distant? His hours at the bakery probably aren't much longer than usual. He's probably just spending time with _Bristel Jimenez._ It must be why he can't Skype her tonight—he already has a date planned.

She wants to blame her anger on the fact that he didn't tell her, not on the fact that there's a girl in his life in the first place. She promises herself that if she hadn't figured out about _Bristel Jimenez_ on her own, she'd be less irate. That this is about Peeta lying to her, not about him replacing her.

_Replacing her._ The words echo off the walls of her skull like her head is a fucking cave, hollow and dark and cold. This is why he hasn't needed to text her or call her as often as he used to… because he has someone else. Another girl. Another girl who looks vaguely like Katniss, but is prettier and more exotic and actually knows how to take a selfie.

She groans into her pillow, damning Peeta Mellark for keeping her in the dark, damning _Bristel Jimenez_ for being beautiful and using exclamation points and being _there_ for Peeta when she couldn't, and damning herself for feeling whatever she's feeling now. It's like anger and melancholy coiled together, drizzled with a brush of fear and powerlessness.

It's green, it's monstrous, and it's everywhere.

* * *

She's the picture of indolence, curled up on the sofa with a pint of Ben & Jerry's tucked in her lap. There are few things in the world she hates more than romantic comedies, so in order to productively reroute her anger, she's pulled up _My Girlfriend's Boyfriend_ on Netflix, because nothing makes her more aggravated than sappy movies that are even shittier than their titles suggest.

"Happy Friday night to you, Katniss," she announces to the empty apartment, spooning a mound of peanut butter fudge ice cream into her mouth.

It can't be more than a minute later that her self-pitying wallow-fest is interrupted by a quiet knock on her door. She didn't think she could possibly get _more_ furious, but with the idea that someone has the _nerve_ to interrupt her in the middle of _such an intimate moment_, her rage only flares. She has half a mind to completely ignore whoever is at her door, but after a second round of knocks, she gives in, slamming her ice cream on the coffee table and stomping over to the entryway.

Clad in her ratty old sweatpants, a black t-shirt that probably belonged to Peeta at some point (she'll remember to burn it later, if she's still in this mood in an hour), and a fresh scowl, she throws open the door.

Both her stomach and her jaw drop to the floor.

"You see, a Skype call would've been nice and everything, but I wanted to see your face in person."

There before her stands Peeta Mellark, blue eyes wide in amusement under a baseball cap, a duffel bag swung over his arm. She can't decide if it's the way his jacket stretches over his shoulders that makes his biceps look so thick, or the way his dark-wash jeans hug his legs so perfectly, or the way his blonde hair curls out from underneath the cap, or the way his adorably devious smirk stretches crookedly on his lips, but in this moment she forgets she's supposed to be angry. She springs across the threshold to wrap her arms around him.

"You should've said something," she murmurs to his neck, closing her eyes as the aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg and _Peeta_ ribbons around her in warm tendrils. It isn't until he hugs her back, until she feels his palms flattening against her spine and shoulders, that she realizes just how deeply she missed him. How much she'd craved his touch.

"I know you hate surprises," he chuckles, "which is exactly why I had to do it. Otherwise, I wouldn't get to see that scowl of yours I love so much."

She melts into putty in his arms.

They stand like that for a few moments, relearning the weight and feel of each other in their grasps, before she suddenly pulls back.

"How the hell did you get up here?"

"What… You forget I can drive? I had to whine for a good half hour, but dad finally caved and let me borrow the car." And then his eyes flit past her. "Oh my god, what are you watching? You _hate_ romantic comedies."

She feels heat creeping in her cheeks. "I… I was mad. I wanted to redirect my anger into something without a face and a heartbeat."

He looks to her, frowning. "What—why were you angry?" His eyes flash. "Did someone hurt you?"

She's only briefly flattered by Peeta getting protective over her. "No, not really. I just… I made up a scenario in my head that was a little… _exaggerated._"

He cocks a brow, begging continuation, but she's not too eager to tell him about it. Instead, she changes the subject. "Jesus, Peeta. It's your first time in Pittsburgh and I haven't even invited you inside to show you around."

By the way his jaw flexes, she knows he's not happy to drop the previous topic, but he concedes with a sigh. "Alright, Ms. Everdeen. Give me a grand tour of the castle. Show me where you keep the prisoners."

She grabs his hand and pulls him into the flat, shutting the door behind him. The feel of his palm on hers makes her entire body tingle; she shivers, swallowing hard.

"Alright. So first, we have the living room with one whole couch and a secondhand 32-inch TV. And a coffee table from Walmart. This is where we entertain our guests—and by _we_, I mean _Annie_, because she's the social butterfly of us two, which makes me the misanthropic moth of the residence." She motions to the other side of the room. "And that's our meagre excuse of a kitchen, complete with a fridge, microwave, and probably-still-edible Pad Thai from last week. No dishwasher. Apparently, cleaning things by hand builds character." She drags him a few feet past the couch. "That door leads to Annie's room. I'm not about to show you it, because she'd decapitate me, but trust me when I say the walls are Pepto-Bismol pink. I have no idea how Finnick manages to fuck her in that room, considering it probably once belonged to a five-year-old girl, but he does, because these walls are paper thin and I can hear _everything._" She ignores Peeta's chuckles and motions to the other door beside Annie's. "And through that door is the dragon-guarded dungeon. _That's_ where we keep the prisoners. It's also where I sleep."

"Will you show me it?" he asks suddenly, lifting a brow suggestively.

She looks to the duffel slung over his shoulder and then back to his face. "Would it be outrageous for me to assume you've packed to stay for the weekend?"

He smiles guiltily.

"Then you'll be staying in there with me, so I'll show you tonight. But first, I have to take you gallivanting across the city—and across campus, of course, so you can see where my soul has come to die."

He chuckles, tossing his bag onto the couch before enveloping her in a bone-crushing hug. "I've missed you, Katniss. Nothing's the same without my favorite _misanthropic moth_."

* * *

She hates alcohol. Three beers and one shitty cocktail later, Katniss hasn't swayed in her opinion. She's the absolute lightest of lightweights, and while some people may like the buzz, Katniss hates the blurriness behind her eyes, hates her thoughts being jumbled. She loves being in control of everything in her being, and the alcohol takes that away.

But she likes being with Peeta, and she finds Peeta quite funny when he's drunk, and so she doesn't mind all that much.

"…and _then_, he says to his bride, 'I'm ready to stop being a cact_i_, and start being a cact_us_," Johanna tells Peeta, leaning down the bar as she cackles at her own joke.

Katniss frowns at the bad joke as Peeta laughs at her side, "God dammit, if only that joke was grammatically correct—"

"Shut up, you fucking English laureate. You're drunk, you're not _supposed_ to care about plural tenses."

Peeta chuckles again, running his hands through his hair and looking down at his empty beer bottle with wide eyes. "God, I am drunk, aren't I?"

"Even the best fall down sometimes." Johanna pats his back in mock-reassurance. Then she glances at her phone. "Well, as much as I'd love to spend the rest of my Friday night at a shitty bar with my mute ex-roommate and her surprisingly charming best friend, I _do_ have places to be and people to play tonsil-hockey with." She hops down from the bar, grabbing her purse and leaving a few bills fanned out over the mahogany surface.

"It was wonderful meeting you, Johanna," Peeta laughs, turning to look at her. "I never thought I'd ever encounter someone even more mordant than Katniss here, but I'm happy to be proven wrong."

"Such a gentleman." She winks at Katniss. "He's a keeper, this one. Give him a nice big kiss for me." After turning to walk away, she calls out over her shoulder, "Thanks for the entertainment. Let's do it again sometime."

There's a moment of silence shared between Peeta and Katniss as they watch her disappear through the front door, Katniss speechless in mortification and Peeta, in amusement; a few seconds lapse before he lets out a breathy chuckle.

"She's… _something_."

"Try living with her for two years."

Peeta looks at her, the corners of his eyes crinkled up in a genuine smile as he shakes his head. "I'm completely washed out after spending an hour with her, so I've got to admire your endurance. How'd you survive for so long? Please, tell me your secret. Ear plugs? Chloroform?"

Katniss finds herself unleashing a giggle that's pathetically un-Katniss-like, but she's drunk so she figures she can't be held liable for any atypical behavior.

But Peeta doesn't stop there. "You know, there's so much about your experience here that I had no idea about. You've told me so much—about Johanna, about the city, about the culture—and I thought I understood, but I didn't even know the half of it. You've got a _life_ out here, Katniss."

She snorts. "Not a very good one."

"Maybe you don't think so, but at least it's something you can call your own. You have an _apartment_, complete with a tiny TV and wallpaper that looks like something my grandmother would plaster over her walls... You have big-city friends, like Johanna. You have… you have _independence_." His face darkens. "And I'm a twenty-one-year-old cancer survivor living above the family bakery with my father. I envy you, Katniss. I really do."

She blames it on her alcohol-lowered inhibitions, because she blurts out, "You can come here, you know. With me. My walls aren't Pepto-Bismol pink. In fact, they're quite a manly beige."

"A _manly beige_," he repeats, chuckling and shaking his head. And then he looks up to her, his smile sad but deep, eyes searching her face for something. "I couldn't do that, not even if I had an excuse to abandon everything at home to live in Pittsburgh."

"Couldn't do what?" she asks.

He blinks. "Intrude on your life, Katniss. This—everything you've built for yourself—is _yours_. It's not mine to take."

She doesn't know what's gotten into him, how he did such a quick one-eighty from being a cheerful comic to someone so grave, but it hurts her. She doesn't like seeing Peeta so emotionally sobered, even in his mildly drunken state.

"I don't want it to be mine," she says bluntly, quietly, and he looks to her in surprise. "I mean, I'm thankful I'm here. Thankful I'm able to attend such a nice university and get an education that'll hopefully put me where I want to be, but… this isn't the life I want to live forever. This isn't my home, Peeta. My home's in Panem." _My home's with you._

She thinks it must be the alcohol that drives him to cover her hand with his, as if he understood her silent thought. They gaze at each other for a while, the bar whirling out of focus until it's just them, studying each other's expressions until their minds are numb.

"Let's go back to my apartment," she says after an immeasurable silence. "We can watch Sherlock on Netflix or talk about politics or drunkenly arm wrestle…"

He laughs then, pushing off his stool to help her down from hers, and after he's paid the bartender they slip out of the tavern, arms interlocked.

November in Pittsburgh is certainly not the friendliest of months, and he's seemed to catch it on a particularly cold day; after they leave the bar they're immediately assaulted with a wall of icy air. Even the alcohol doesn't completely save them from the cold, and Peeta's arm slips from hers to wrap around her shoulder, pressing her exposed ear to the warmth of his chest.

"Welcome to Antarctica," she blurts as they stumble along the sidewalk.

"I feel like I've just entered the set of _Frozen_." He eyes the thin dusting of snow on the concrete around them. "In my slightly inebriated state, if I start to channel my inner Elsa and sing _Let it Go_, please put me out of my misery and smash my head into a telephone pole."

She giggles again, wrapping herself around him tighter.

The journey back to her apartment feels miles longer than it actually is, but eventually they make it, stumbling through the door in a panting, chattering mess.

"I'm going to put something warmer on," Katniss announces as she stumbles toward her room, cursing herself for having changed out of her sweats when they left to explore Pittsburgh a few hours back. She's just going to put them right back on again, anyway.

After she's swaddled in the sweatpants she'd left strewn over her floor, plucked off her bra and tugged an oversized UPitt sweatshirt over her naked torso, she slips into the living room. She starts at the sight of Peeta hovering over the sofa in a pair of flannel pajama pants and absolutely no shirt, padding through his duffel. Only a few seconds pass before Peeta manages to pull a t-shirt over his head, but a few seconds are all she needs, because in that short time she melts twice over at the sight of his broad shoulders and corded back muscles. A memory flashes back through her head, one of her grasping those shoulders as he kissed her, as he slipped his hand under her the band of her sweatpants—the same sweatpants she's wearing now, actually—and made her come undone with his fingers.

She gulps.

_Shit. This is going to be a long night._

He stands up straight, his eyes scanning her up and down before settling on her face with an approving smile. "I love the relaxed college-girl look on you. Well, I think I like all your other looks, too. But this is pretty nice."

She rolls her eyes and meets him by the sofa, plopping down on the cushions. "What do you want to do, baker boy?"

He sits beside her, and before she knows what's happening he's pulling her onto his lap, his fingers absentmindedly playing with the tip of her braid. "I want to know why you were angry earlier. You never told me."

Fuck. She thought he'd forgotten.

"It's not important." She avoids his eyes and tacks on quietly, "I'm not mad now."

"It was something I did, wasn't it?" he murmurs.

"You're not supposed to be perceptive when you're drunk, Peeta," she giggles, although her chest hurts now.

Their gazes weave together, and she sees the pain blossoming around his dilated pupils. "It was because you thought I didn't want to talk to you, wasn't it? I'm sorry, I… I just wanted to surprise you, Katniss, I… I didn't want to _upset_ you…"

She looks down, feeling stupid for thinking he'd ditch her so readily.

But… that doesn't explain the whole situation with _Bristel Jimenez_. Why he hadn't told her about his new coworker.

Before she knows what she's doing, her gaze is digging into his again, and she's asking him, "Why didn't you tell me about her?"

Peeta frowns, confusion threading in his brows. "Her?"

"B—Bristel. You didn't tell me about her. That's why I was angry. I thought you had a date when you said you couldn't Skype with me, and so I… I went onto your Facebook, because I thought there might be something there, and I saw her in a picture with you, and I thought… I mean, she's beautiful, Peeta, and—I don't know, I don't know what I thought…"

As her voice tapers off, she makes a mental note to never ever _ever_ drink again, because then she gets _talkative_, and God knows all hell breaks loose whenever Katniss opens her mouth.

Peeta's frown only deepens with every word, but by the end his eyes are closed, his face pinched up in some degree of pain that makes her own chest feel like it's been hammered with a sock full of batteries.

"Katniss, I—I never told you about her because… I mean, I didn't think you'd _care_, I didn't think she mattered—"

"She's taking pictures with you and posting them everywhere, but she's not even worth mentioning in one conversation?"

He rubs his temples. "Please don't make this into something it's not. She's a very sweet girl, she—"

"So you _like_ her, then?"

Peeta's eyes shock open, his jaw popped in mortification. "Katniss, she's _sixteen_. She's five years younger than—she's practically a _baby_! You think I'd—I'd—_no_! God, she's only been working here for… three weeks, maybe four? She's in the front most of the time so I don't even see her much. I didn't think—"

"What? You didn't think I'd want to hear about a new friend of yours?" The words taste wrong leaving her mouth; she's not anywhere near as upset as she sounds, but the alcohol twists her mind until her emotions are categorized and she only knows extremes. In this case, extreme anger.

He stares at her in disbelief, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he struggles for the right words to say. And then, so softly his voice comes out as pure velvet, he whispers, "I didn't think she was worth your time."

Her lungs stop working.

"Katniss—" His fingers are on her neck now, on her jaw. "Please, I never meant to hurt you. I barely get to talk to you enough as is, and I literally _don't care_ for Bristel, so I didn't want to waste the little time I have for conversation with you on someone inconsequential. She's a nice girl, and I'm not going to lie and tell you I hate working with her, but she feels like a cousin to me or something. Believe me when I say she doesn't matter."

Katniss has no choice but to believe him. It's the most sober she's seen him all night, and it wrings her heart out like a dishcloth but makes the space between her thighs pulse.

She feels so stupid. She should've trusted him.

All she can do is nod, ducking her head to tuck it under his chin. He wraps his arms around her, holding her against him as she presses her ear to the expanse of his cotton-clad chest, the dull thud of his heartbeat music to her pounding head.

They sit like that for a while, not speaking, just listening to each other's silence. She feels his hands gently undoing her braid, and she lets him, savoring the feeling of his fingers brushing over her scalp. She sighs contentedly, playing with the fabric of his shirt.

And then, out of the blue, she hears him laugh.

"What's so funny?" she mumbles.

But he doesn't answer, his laughter only growing in magnitude, his hands moving from her hair to his face.

"Peeta?"

And then he says it, what she'd been afraid of this whole night, his voice light and cheerful but _knowing_, and it makes her bones turn to sludge.

"I inadvertently made Katniss Everdeen jealous."

She pulls back, her eyes fire as they rake over his pride-frosted face. "What?"

"I'm sorry," he laughs, palming his forehead. "I know I shouldn't be laughing, but… I made you _jealous_."

"No you didn't," she grits, but her denial is weak.

"I think I did. And do you know what that means?"

"Peeta—" she warns.

"It means that somewhere, deep down, you actually _care_ about me."

Her breath catches.

His deduction both enrages her and shatters her heart into a million pebbles of glass. Could it be possible that Peeta really thinks she doesn't care about him? That after all they've been through, he isn't her world?

She reads his expression, seeing the drunken humor laced over his features, but underneath that rests a dormant sadness, one that breaks her all over again.

It makes her want to cry. Or vomit. One of the two.

She can't be here anymore. At once it's all too much; his words, his elated sadness, his honey-cinnamon-nutmeg scent, his ocean irises, his heated body under hers… it's overwhelming, _drowning_, even. Without thinking, she clambers off his lap.

That's all it takes to silence him. "Katniss?"

She's scrambles away from the sofa, hurrying to her room. It's not like she can escape him—once she's in her room, where will she go? Her bathroom? Down the fire escape?—but she isn't all that concerned with being rational at the moment. All she knows is that she needs to put as much space between her and the boy she cares entirely too much about.

Because she wants him. Just like she did on the night they dutifully avoid speaking of, she wants to feel him, wants to kiss him until she's made of light and wings spurt from her back, wants to come undone, wants to make _him_ come undone…

And she can't have that. Because now she knows just how much she's hurt him. She has him convinced that she doesn't even care about him because every time he gets closer she only runs away from him; all she _does_ is run, and he thinks it's because she's trying to escape from him.

In this moment of alcohol-induced clarity, she realizes she's never been running away from _him_.

_He_ was never the problem.

It was always her, wasn't it? _Always_ her?

She dives into her bed, burying her head in the pillows as she gasps for air that isn't coming, her entire body trembling. Her blood feels like it's made of lead; she can feel it crawling through her veins, weighing her down, crushing her systems.

And then he's there.

"Katniss, please—talk to me."

His hand is on her shoulder, gentle but insistent. She sobs into the pillows, "You need to stay away from me," but he only laughs nervously.

"Katniss, I can't hear you with your mouth full of fabric."

Without even a second of delay she's bolting upright, her face inches from his.

"Stay away from me, Peeta," she tells him as powerfully as she can, her voice deep and rumbling. But the effect is lost; her words shake.

He sits on the bed, blinking at her through the gloom.

"I... I can't do that, Katniss."

"You have to," she urges, her eyes stinging from looming tears. "If you want me to be more than your friend, I'm sorry, but I can't. I'm not made for that."

He gazes at her for what could be years.

And then he says it. He says everything, summing it all up, knowing and understanding and confirming.

"Katniss… do you not care about me, or… or do you not _want_ to care about me?"

Her entire body is trembling at his words.

In that moment he's cracked her being in half, discovered the core of her depravity, of their misalignment.

She should've expected this. Peeta knows her better than she knows herself; of course he'd figure out why she's denying him, even if he doesn't completely understand.

She can't lie to him any longer.

"The second one," she whispers miserably.

She hears him sigh and surprises herself by not pulling away when his hand finds hers in the dark.

"You're trembling," he whispers.

"You're observant."

"You're beautiful."

She hiccups. "You're drunk."

He startles her by chuckling slightly. "Alcohol doesn't make you blind, Katniss. No matter how many beers I've had, or how many beers I _haven't_ had, you're still beautiful."

"Why won't you just leave me alone, Peeta?" she moans.

"I told you. I can't do that." His voice is pained but unrelenting; she can see him well now that her eyes have adjusted, even though his face is washed of color in the shadows. But his expression is clear to her. All she sees resting in his features is a silent plea.

She feels his hand tighten on hers.

"Why not?"

And then, in a whirl of blurry silhouettes he's laid her out on the bed, hovering over her. Somehow, his knees land between hers, his hands grasping her palms and holding them against the pillows on either side of her head, not firmly, but it gets the point across.

His nose swipes over hers, and she feels her chest automatically stir.

"Because once, a while back, an incredible girl told her best friend that she wanted him to fight for her."

His nose nuzzles hers again, and she feels her entire body tingle in response, knowing that she should be pushing him off but… she doesn't want to. At all.

"And I've been so stupid," he continues, his voice silk against her skin, "for watching you keep talking yourself out of this, hurting yourself, and doing nothing about it. I cared about you, Katniss, enough to make me think that accepting your friendship for only its face value would make you happy. But it isn't making you happy. It's making you miserable, and I'd be the shittiest best friend in the world if I let you keep hurting yourself because of some skewed belief that you don't deserve something. I know you, Katniss. I know your favorite color and the way you take your coffee and how you loop the tails of your g's and y's when you hand-write things. And I also know your self-esteem is a thousand feet lower than it should be, and that maybe you think you don't deserve to be happy, or that your love isn't good enough. But, above all, I know you well enough to know that it is. Your love _is_ good enough, Katniss. It's pure and rare and a thousand times better than _I_ could deserve, but I want it. I want to earn it so badly. And I will fight like I've never fought before to earn it. I will fight for _you._ I will _always_ fight for you, Katniss."

His eyes are so close to hers, pleading, and she finds herself crumbling underneath him.

"Why?" she asks shakily. "Why would you ever want to fight for me?"

And then he smiles that half-crooked, dimple-inducing smile, the one that melts her and reassures her and reminds her of all the reasons she's ever adored him in the first place.

"Because you're my lunar girl," he whispers, his lips brushing her forehead and her cheek, making her shiver. "Because you're the mysterious huntress that sings like a bird. Because you can climb trees and calculate trajectories and laugh and cry and be honest and _real_ and _beautiful_. Because I can't remember what it was like to not want to make you smile."

His lips are now grazing over her neck, leaving a trail of tingling, white-hot flesh in their wake. She gasps, her back arching slightly, and he lets go of her wrists to grasp her hip and the side of her face.

Automatically, her palms flatten against his chest. She's going to push him away. She _needs_ to push him away. It's what she should do. She shouldn't let this go on, let him waste his time with her—he's just drunk, and he'll regret this all in the morning.

She tells her hands to shove him off, but her body has a mind of its own. Instead, her fingers do the opposite of their instruction, curling around the fabric there, pulling him closer.

Her mouth is on his before either of them understand exactly what she's doing. She hears a small sound of surprise in the back of his throat—he hadn't expected _her_ to instigate the kiss—but his response time is impressive, and he's kissing her back with a hunger that matches hers in concentration within seconds.

And she's on fire. Her body is a flame, and Peeta's her oxygen; he makes her burn brighter, higher, until she's more drunk on the taste of his lips than on the booze from earlier. He's everywhere but nowhere at the same time; she needs him closer, flush up against her, with the feel of his skin fusing to hers.

She needs _him_.

She pulls his shirt off in record time.

Before long, their clothes have melted away, leaving them in nothing but their underwear, their bodies tangling like ribbons below the blankets. His hands leave no inch of her untouched, lips mapping territories all over her skin. When his mouth finds the peak of her breast, raw voltage shocks through her veins and she lets out a gasp she didn't know she was withholding; he moans against her skin as he draws the flesh between his lips, his hands on her in possessive reverence.

Why had she deprived them of this for so long? She sees no rhyme or reason to it now. Her loyalty has always lied with Peeta, and his with her. Surely it'd be _easier_ to blame this all on the alcohol than confront the frightening reality that she's falling for him, claiming her desire will fade away as her sobriety replenishes, but she's tired of pretending. She's tired of running away from him out of some warped yearning for self-preservation.

"Peeta," she breathes as his hand slides down her belly teasingly. It does nothing if not electrify her.

Without warning, his mouth suddenly releases her breast and he slides up to her, his fat pupils locking with hers as he pants, fingers lingering just above her underwear.

"I want you so much, Katniss," he whispers, lifting his palm to cup her cheek. "But I have to know you won't regret this come morning. That you're not going to—to regret _us_. I can't... I can't lose you again."

She gazes up at him, blinking, aware of what she _should_ say, but oddly unable to say it.

Peeta is a man of impossible patience, because although she doesn't immediately respond, he dips his head down to kiss her gently. "I know you're scared of what might happen with us. But I'm not going to hurt you, Katniss. I will go to my grave protecting you, if that's what it takes."

Her entire body is coiled, the words impetuous on her tongue, but for some reason, she can't set them free.

His forehead finds hers, his eyes fluttering closed; she studies his eyelashes, the smooth lines of his face, the sharpness of his jaw… the face she's memorized time and time again but looks so different now.

Because he's not just her friend anymore.

She doesn't want him to be only that.

"If you don't want this, I can go sleep on the couch and give you space. I just want you to be happy, Katniss," he murmurs, his breath curling over her lips. And then his eyes shock open. "What do _you_ want?"

The answer is obvious—it has been for months, _years_ now, even… hasn't it? She's known it since before their night in the treehouse, since before their cupcake war, since before their first kiss, since before their senior prom. Its origins may be rooted all the way back on the day he gave her that bread, although it surely wasn't clear then. But it's been clear for a while now; she's just been too afraid to accept it.

She takes a long breath before snaking one hand up to curl in his hair, the other sweeping over his broad shoulders, anchoring him against her.

"I want _you_, Peeta," she whispers, finally, and the moment the words leave her mouth she confident they're the truth.

The expression blossoming over Peeta's features makes her entire body turn to a sugary, goopy mess. Dimples polka-dot his cheeks as he closes his eyes, nuzzling his forehead more snugly into hers, painting over her bottom lip with his thumb like she's his canvas.

And then he's kissing her, his mouth gentle but greedy as his tongue sweeps the seam of her lips, stealing her breath and giving her life. Everything about this—about _them—is so new and uncharted, but at the same time it feels timeless, because this is _Peeta._ This isn't some strange boy in her bed. This is the man who's been her universe, every last star in her night sky, since they were kids.

She has no doubts anymore. She instantly aware of what they're about to do—what she _wants_ them to do—and she's not afraid, not like she thought she'd be.

And so, with barely trembling hands, she hooks her fingers around the band of his boxers to pull them down.

He freezes on top of her.

"Katniss?"

His hand has found her wrist, halting her movements. All she can do is look up at him with wide eyes.

His jaw tenses in shock. "You—are you sure you want this?"

"I want you," she repeats, once more, because it's the simplest truth she knows.

"It's not too fast?"

She shakes her head. It's been a long time in the making; she knows that. She knows _he_ knows that.

And she wants this. So badly. She wants to feel him, every last inch of him, to know what it's like to make love with a boy she's been crazy for since she realized the opposite gender doesn't have cooties.

The restraint he's struggling to put forth is being inked over with his desire, but he manages one last caveat.

"I've never… I've never done this." His voice is small.

She doesn't have to tell him she's in the same boat.

"I _want_ to," he clarifies, "with you, though." And then, more quietly: "I want it to be you. I always have."

She melts.

She can't think of a better person to be with like this. There's no one that's ever come close.

"I can sneak into Annie's room," Katniss offers quietly. "I know where she keeps the condoms."

Peeta only nods, shifting off her. But he gives her one soft kiss before she leaves.

Despite her typical modesty, she doesn't bother covering herself as she slinks into Annie's room, digging through the drawer of her roommate's nightstand for a foil square. Her heart is drumming with each second, her trembling magnifying; is she really about to do this? Is this really what she _wants_ to do?

She stills for a few moments to catch her breath and think it through one more time.

Yes. Yes, this is what she wants to do.

When she returns, Peeta's lying sideways underneath the sheets, the blankets covering him from the waist down. Bands of moonlight lace over his exposed torso in intricate patterns, and all she can see are muscles and soft lines and milky flesh and _Peeta_, her Peeta.

She stands there for a moment, drinking him in, absolutely appalled with his unearthly beauty.

And then he sighs.

"I wish I could capture this moment with a paintbrush."

Her cheeks flood with color as she dips her head in embarrassment, crawling onto the bed and covering herself with the blanket.

But he gently pulls it back, the heel of his palm ghosting over the swell of her breast as he does so. "Don't be ashamed. You are absolutely exquisite, Ms. Everdeen."

His words have the opposite effect from their intention; her blush only deepens.

Before she can respond, however, he brushes the hair from her temple, kissing her forehead. "We don't have to do this, love. Not until you're sure you're ready."

The endearment makes her heart flutter uncontrollably, shooting up into her throat. She swallows it down before it can do any damage.

"I'm sure," she tells him, handing him the foil square.

But he sets it aside for the moment, repositioning her underneath him where he tilts her chin up for a painfully slow kiss. "I want to do this the right way." And then he snorts. "If there is any 'right way' for two twenty-one-year-old, half-drunk virgins who've been best friends since the Clinton administration was in office, of course."

Her responding giggle is taut with anxiety, but when their mouths connect she tastes the smile on his. Even though she's afraid, she trusts him, and his kiss detangles her muscles and she begins to relax beneath him.

His fingers chart her skin from her collar all the way down to her thighs, tracing over the tender flesh and making her shiver before curling around the waistband of her panties and pulling them down. She awkwardly kicks them to the side, fully naked beneath Peeta for the first time. He's the first person to see her like this, and although her nerves are already firing violent impulses from their synapses at the thought… she's glad it's him. He's the only one she could ever put so much faith in _not_ to hurt her.

She knows he'll keep her safe.

And then she feels his fingers sliding over her entrance, teasingly at first, but the throbbing between her thighs suddenly heightens as she aches for some sort of pressure to relieve it.

The whiney mewl she releases is embarrassing when he finally dips a finger in, then two, collecting the moisture that's developing there. But he only seems more aroused by it, because she can feel him growing even harder through his boxers, his lips capturing hers. Someone moans; she's not sure who.

"You're so—so _warm_," he groans, his tongue flicking out over her lips. And then he retracts his hand. "I think—I think you're wet enough."

She whimpers in protest as she feels him shift away from her for a moment, but then he's suddenly over her again with the foil square wedged between his index and thumb. He starts to tear at the package, but she plucks it from his grasp.

"Let me."

He swallows hard.

She tries to ignore the shaking of her hands as she rips the foil, pulling out the condom as Peeta slips his boxers off. The fact that they're both completely naked is not lost on her, only making her more nervous, but she gulps down her fear.

This is Peeta. She should have nothing to be afraid of.

He lets out a strangled gasp when she wraps her tiny hand around him, and her nerves flare up instantly.

"How—how the hell am I supposed to fit _that_ in…" She feels her chest tightening. Fuck, she can hardly even use regular sized tampons, and those have _nothing_ on Peeta. Katniss has a mind rooted in science and math, and just from simple calculations she knows there's _no_ way these dimensions will work in her favor…

He kisses her temple. "I'll be gentle."

That isn't the exact answer she's looking for, but it'll have to do. She steels herself and resumes her endeavor, rolling down the condom down his length inexpertly. He keeps his jaw clenched the entire time.

With the condom safely on, she draws back her hands and weaves them around his shoulders, seeking comfort by holding him close. Despite the countless nights she spent with his body flush against hers, everything about this moment is unsettlingly new.

But this is Peeta. Her kind, gentle, compassionate Peeta.

And she's not the only novice; at least she has him fighting alongside her.

When their eyes align, she sees the same anxiety ballooning in his irises, and it calms her knowing she's not alone.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks her once more, because God forbid he act as anything less than an annoyingly perfect gentleman.

She musters a weak nod, clenching her jaw. "Peeta?"

He presses his forehead against hers.

"I—is this supposed to hurt?"

He gives her a sad smile. "A little, I think. But… I'll be so careful, Katniss. Just—just tell me to stop if it's too much, okay?"

She swallows and nods.

He looks down between them, one hand moving to her hip and the other to guide himself in; she keeps her eyes trained on his face, watching his brows knit together in concentration, his jaw tense.

It's then that she notices he's trembling.

Her hands bracket his cheeks, and his eyes snap up to hers, the panic ringing bright in his dilated pupils.

"You're trembling," she whispers.

He gives her a nervous smile. "I just… I want this to be good for you."

"What about you?"

"I don't have to worry about that," he laughs. "I've—I've been wanting this since before I can remember."

She's a little startled by his admission, but his voice is so small in its vulnerability, which softens her resolve and spurs her pulse even more.

"Then let's do this," she whispers. "Together."

He smiles. "Together."

With a slow kiss, he begins to push in.

She winces at the initial sting, but tries to relax—she knows this'd be so much easier if she just _took a deep breath_. But her body doesn't readily welcome the intrusion, and "relaxing" is easier said than done. Yet her palms flatten against his lower back, slowly urging him forward despite the discomfort.

When he's completely sheathed inside her, he lets out a soft moan and stills for a moment to allow her to adjust. She grateful the pain isn't as sharp as expected, as it's more like a dull pinch, but she still needs a few moments to recover.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs, his lips sending tingles down her spine as they brush against her ear, the sensation travelling all the way to where they're joined.

She bites her lip and nods. "Yeah. You can, uh—start moving. Just go slow."

His mouth captures hers as he draws his hips back, then forward again.

At first, his movements are measured, cautious, and with each motion the discomfort begins to fade. Her nails dig into his shoulders when he goes in farther than before; a new type of pleasure twists into strained helices in her belly. She had no idea what this could feel like, but through the rapidly dissolving pain, she encounters a sensation that turns her upside down. It feels otherworldly… and she vocally articulates it. Her gasps trigger soft moans to fall from Peeta's tongue onto hers, and he pulls back to look at her as he rocks into her slowly.

"Katniss, you're... so... _beautiful_," he murmurs tightly, his words punctuated with each thrust. His jaw is slack and his sweaty curls hang over his brow, but his eyes drill into hers as if she's the only thing in his world, and it makes her stomach coil.

Katniss doesn't believe there has ever been a moment in which she felt so magnificent. And Peeta gives this to her. He gives her this power, this feeling of security even in her vulnerability…

How could she have ever thought it'd be possible to be with someone that wasn't him?

She tries to concentrate on the sensation of him moving in and out of her, but the pleasure isn't building as quickly as she'd like, so she tries to angle her pelvis to meet his movements a little more efficiently. It doesn't work as planned. It throws off their rhythm entirely, and at some point he accidentally slides all the way out, and it takes several moments of nervous laughter and shifting for them to regain their lost footing.

His rhythm is uneven and he's not all that sure what to do with his hands, and she still has yet to find an effective way to meet his thrusts, but she'd expected their first time to be sloppy, and even through the chaos, their moment is still exhilarating.

And oddly, the inelegance of the entire thing comforts her. It feels more real this way.

Without warning, he grasps the back of her thigh and thrusts deeper, changing the angle. "Is this okay?" he asks.

"Y—yes," she gasps, her head falling back and her chin tensing. "Peeta, _please_—"

She doesn't know _what_ she's pleading for—him to go faster? Harder?—but the moment his name falls from her lips he moans and grasps the headboard with his free hand, burying his face in her neck. He rocks more insistently into her, his movements sharpening her gasps into knives, their sounds piercing the sweaty air of the room.

As she feels the roots of her pleasure anchoring deeper in her core, she grasps whatever of him she can, pulling him closer. Her mind has metamorphosed into white heat and desperation; all she can think of is the scent of honey-cinnamon mixed with sweat and drunken love, wrapped in their rough gasps and the creak of bedsprings.

"I—I can't—I'm not going to—" He tries to warn her as his fingers snake between them, finding that spot between her thighs that makes her writhe to hasten her own summit. She knows she's not quite there yet, but the idea that she has this effect on him still thrills her. She twists her fingers in his hair, moaning against his ear as she concentrates on how unreal it all feels, with him in her, rocking back and forth, over and over and over…

His rhythm soon loses all pretense of control as he draws the skin of her neck between his lips, hard enough to leave a mark but not enough to hurt (because Peeta would _never_ hurt her, no, not ever). And then, with him pouring a strangled moan into her neck, his ragged movements go still as he reaches the same crest he'd provided her on their night in the treehouse.

He lays limply over her for a few moments to catch his breath, his weight a delicious addition to the sex-laced air. However, after a moment, he pulls away from her to dispose of the condom. The instant his heat has left hers, she suddenly feels frozen, the sheen of sweat coating her body welcoming the air with a haunting chill. She lays like that, still strung tight and surprisingly cold as she waits for him to return.

It's only a few moments before the mattress dips under his weight and his hands gently part her legs; she feels him wipe her nearly-numb flesh with a warm washcloth. Momentarily, she feels something against her hipbone—his lips?

"I didn't make you come," he murmurs, his words tickling the flesh stretched over her flat belly. There's an ambiance of remorse in his tone, and it crushes her lungs.

She reaches down, brushing his sweaty curls from his forehead. "It's okay. It—it felt incredible, Peeta." Neither of which are lies. He transformed her into a volcanic blaze and made her feel like fucking stardust; she regrets nothing. Not with Peeta. She's done regretting her feelings for him, _especially_ after that.

But then he presses a soft kiss just below her belly button, and the throbbing between her thighs suddenly whirrs back to life. _Damn Peeta and those perfect lips and his unintentionally arousing behavior._

He pulls his mouth away from her skin all too soon. With him suddenly absent, her thirst becomes unbearable, and she opens her mouth to protest.

And then he's parting her thighs wider, positioning them over his shoulders. Petrified, she tries to scramble up the bed, but his arms curl around her legs and grasp her hips, his lips nearly inches from the slick heat that's an impossible meridian between sorely numb and throbbing with impatience.

"_Peeta!_"

"You didn't come," he says again, softly, his mouth _so close_…

She feels a billion words dueling in the back of her throat, but all that comes out is a barely articulate, "I—I know, but—but it's okay, you d-don't, uh… you don't have to—"

"I _want_ to," he insists, a devious glint in his eyes. She nearly chokes when he plants an open-mouthed kiss on the inside of her thigh. Half of her wants to scream bloody murder while the other half of her wants to moan because even just his _breath_ there spurs the fire in her belly.

_Holy shit, he's actually about to do this._ She's panting, her heart racing at the speed of sound as she props herself up on her elbows to watch him, still convinced there's _no way_ he's going to proceed.

"Peeta, really, this isn't necessary. It's okay if—"

All her words crumble to ash in her throat the moment his tongue darts out to taste her, and she falls back against the pillows, some inhuman sound wrenching from her throat.

And that's the full extent of her protestation. The hands that had been so ready to push him away weave into his golden curls now, holding him there as he lifts her off the earth. Compared to a few moments ago, his mouth is so much softer, so much gentler and reverent and _focused_… it brings her pleasure to an unimaginable pinnacle almost immediately.

She tries to muffle the sounds that escape her mouth with the inside of her arm, because now she's the only one in the room who's moaning and she feels so _exposed_, her sticky body bared completely while his tongue scrolls poems between her thighs. But the moment she's flung her arm over her lips, Peeta raises a hand from her waist to lace his fingers with hers.

He lifts his head from her only long enough to murmur, "I want to hear you."

Her composure is lost.

She doesn't know if it's the magnitude of it all, the latent pressure from their last endeavor, or simply the pressure of his tongue, but every ounce of feeling in her core is amplified tenfold. Her cries only augment his enthusiasm and it doesn't take long for the knots in her core to grow more rigid, tenser, so unbearably _tight_ until it all finally bursts, her spine arching so far off the bed that Peeta has pin her hips down with his muscle-corded forearms. She twists her neck to try to stifle her sounds with the pillow as galaxies of heat and color and prose and music completely drown her, but her attempt is useless.

She can barely feel a thing when he maneuvers himself from between her thighs, peppering kisses all the way from her center up to her throat. She lays there in a sweaty, panting, boneless puddle, convinced that her own capacity for pleasure has officially gone extinct. She's down for the count. Possibly forever.

"How was that?" he chuckles nervously, pushing her sweaty hair from her brow and pulling her into his arms.

She responds with nothing more than a dreamy hum, relishing the feel of his body securing hers. At once, she feels full again. _Safe_ again. His heat welcomes her, smothering her fear until she's sated in his grasp, his skin like velvet on hers.

She allows the looming black to descend on her as he presses a soft kiss to her crown, his thumb stroking her shoulder absentmindedly. Somewhere, in the midst of budding unconsciousness, a string of blurred words threads through her mind, possibly in a dream.

"It was always going to be you."

She doesn't know if those words are real or not real.

* * *

The room still smells like sex and cinnamon when her eyes flutter open in the morning, only the bed is cold and she's alone.

Her heart thuds. _Where's Peeta_?

For a moment she wonders if she's dreamt the whole thing, and anxiety sears her from head to toe. The dry, thick taste of a hangover swells in her throat, and she wonders if maybe she'd gotten drunk with Johana last night and imagined it all.

But the dull soreness between her thighs tells her otherwise, and before she can question herself she feels her lips curl up in a smile.

She knows she should be _mortified_, as she was the morning after the treehouse incident, but the sensation she's searching for is absent. All that's filling her head is an onslaught of confusion as to _where_ Peeta is—and why there aren't any clothes on the floor like last night—and a fucking brutal hangover.

Not that she knows what a true brutal hangover is. Last night was the first time she got legitimately drunk.

She guesses last night was the first for a _lot_ of things.

Mindful of the crushing pressure in her head, she sits upright slowly, wrapping the sheets around her slender, naked silhouette as she rises from the bed. On her way to the living room, she passes a mirror and almost vomits at the sight of her hair. She looks like fucking Mufasa.

She slowly stumbles into the kitchen, clinging tight to the sheet as she rounds the corner.

Relief floods her systems.

There stands Peeta, squared at the stove in nothing but his Batman boxers—_he did that on purpose_—as he scrambles up some eggs in a skillet.

Thanks to her stealthy footwork, she's able to stand in the entryway to the kitchen and study Peeta for a few moments without him noticing. As he works over the stove, the muscles in his back flex and relax, the movement causing Katniss's mind to whirr. She's never denied that she finds Peeta attractive, and she knows she never will in the future, either. He's capable of exhibiting the cuteness of a puppy but the charm of any bigtime news anchor. And then, last night… well, that was an _entirely_ different type of allure that she hadn't ever expected.

As she leans against the frame of the entryway, she thinks about how even though his magnetism from the previous night had been off the charts, he was still so… _gentle_. He'd do anything to keep from hurting her.

That's how she knows this isn't a mistake. Of course, rarely can she make a decision so large without some element of fear seeping in—what if she _does_ lose Peeta?—but knowing he'll protect her with everything he has convinces her.

She still doesn't deserve him, of course. She never will. But he deserves to be happy, and if this is what he wants, she has nothing beyond a few meagre excuses to _not_ comply.

Besides, after last night, it's all or nothing.

And there's no way in _hell_ she'll chose nothing.

After watching his shoulder muscles work away for a bit longer, his disheveled curls swaying with his movements, she alerts him of her presence by clearing her throat.

He starts a little, turning around. What begins as an expectant expression soon breaks into genuine elation, and then after studying her sheet-draped silhouette, his eyes flicker with something less chaste. It makes her stomach flip pleasantly.

"How long have you been here?" He pads up to her, wrapping his arms around her. If she'd had any last lingering doubts, with his touch, they easily evaporate.

"Just a few seconds," she lies, letting him kiss her forehead. "What are you making?"

"Good hangover food," he laughs, motioning to the eggs. "And there's also some brownies in the oven."

Even though brownies are easily one of her favorite food groups, the thought doesn't agree with her stomach.

She grimaces. "Care to explain?"

"I thought today presented the perfect opportunity to knock the next thing off my bucket list, which happens to involve brownies, Disney movies, and blanket forts. Care to join?"

"I'll pass on the brownies for now, but the rest seems absolutely _lovely_." She yawns. "After I give myself a few minutes to wake up, that is."

He smiles down at her, and her heart thuds against her ribs as he tilts her chin up with a finger, his mouth slanting over hers.

"Take all the time you need."

* * *

Calling in sick to work has never sounded smarter.

After forcing down a helping of scrambled eggs and banana toast, Katniss slips into an oversized t-shirt that once belonged to Peeta, a pair of cotton panties, and calls it good for the day. She then strips the sheets from her bed and steals the covers from Annie's, so she and Peeta can make the most outrageously elaborate blanket fort in her living room she's ever seen. It collapses pretty regularly, but oh well. Neither of them are getting a degree in engineering for a reason.

They spend the rest of their day in their quasi-stable fort, packing as many animated Disney films into the daylight hours as they possibly can while munching on the brownies Peeta made that morning. It takes plenty of obnoxious coaxing on his behalf, but eventually Katniss caves and sings along with the songs on the screen. At first, she does so purely to shut him up, but after belting out _I'll Make a Man Out of You_ from _Mulan_ and making Peeta double over with laughter, he tells her that her voice was the first thing he fell in love with about her.

Safe to say, she sings every song for him after that.

And by the time they've made it to Mufasa's death in _Lion King_, they've curled up on a bed of pillows, Katniss's head dipped under Peeta's chin as he plays with her hair.

She doesn't know why he's selected such a gloomy moment to spring this topic on her, but he does, and she knows she can't avoid it like she once would.

"What does this make us, Katniss?"

She pulls her head back to look at him, searching those deep blues for an answer, but all she finds is desperation.

He's terrified that she'll run away. He doesn't have to say it; she can read it in his expression as if it was tattooed on his forehead.

"I don't know," she says back softly, because she truly isn't sure; calling him her "boyfriend" doesn't seem right to her. He's more than that.

Noticing his panic still hasn't ebbed, she leans in to kiss him, hoping it'll remind him that she's here. That she's not about to flee. "But I don't think it really matters."

He gapes at her, and she realizes her wording probably wasn't the most sensitive, so she quickly revises. "I mean, I don't think we really need a label. Whatever we have isn't _typical_, Peeta."

Although the anxiety still lingers in his eyes, he smiles and taps her nose. "That's because there's nothing _typical_ about you, Ms. Everdeen." And then he sighs. "If you don't want to put a sticker on it, that's fine. I just… I just need to know that... that you're not going to leave."

Her throat thickens, and she tries so hard to swallow the lump that's formed there, but it won't budge.

"I'm not leaving you, Peeta. I can't." It's too late now.

That seems to comfort him just enough, because he settles back against the sofa and pulls her onto his lap. Her back flattens out against his chest, and she tilts her head against his shoulder, relishing the way that her own body sways with each breath.

Not too long after their discussion, _Hakuna Matata_ starts blaring from the TV, and Katniss and Peeta find themselves in a particularly interesting sing-a-long, where she agrees to sing _only_ if she can voice Timon and Peeta will voice Pumbaa.

Peeta is probably better at swallowing knives than he is at singing, but their duet instantly dissolves them into a pile of giggles. Moments like these are enough to remind Katniss of exactly what Peeta is to her, quelling any rising doubts.

Because even though she doesn't know the exact extent of her affection for Peeta, and their relationship can't be so easily defined, she knows he's her sunshine, and that's all that really matters.

* * *

_So that's what happens when I write a chapter sans outline. We still have quite a roller coaster ahead of us, but at least Katniss is done being stupid, which should make the rest of the chapters bearable._

_Also, since I'm going off to college in five days (yikes.) I don't know exactly how erratic my updating schedule will become, but I promise you I will not abandon this story unless I'm on my deathbed. _

_I love reviews, PMs, and anything on Tumblr at all (find me at __**the-peeta-pocket**__), so please let me know what you're thinking! I hope I haven't completely messed everything up with this last chapter, but hey, I'm pretty happy to write some legitimate Everlark that won't be undone by the next chapter. Woohoo._


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